


The Ghosts of Gondolin

by FrancescaMonterone



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angmar, Epic, F/M, Fall of Gondolin, Friendship, Gondolin, House of the Fountain, House of the Golden Flower, Lost Tales, M/M, Memories, Rivendell | Imladris, Romance, Unrequited Love, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-01 09:17:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 52,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17241614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancescaMonterone/pseuds/FrancescaMonterone
Summary: In the Valley of Imladris, Elrond and his companions have founded the Last Homely House - a refuge, a haven of peace in the wilderness of Middle Earth. Erestor alone remembers the flames, the blood, the ashes, the terrible flight from the ruined city. But he is not the only survivor of the Fall of Gondolin, it seems, and Glorfindel's arrival shatters his hard-won composure.  Memories resurface, of the House of the Fountain, of Ecthelion, who took him in and raised him as a brother, of a golden hero on a white horse, riding out to battle...And Glorfindel's fate seems to be as inseperable intertwined with the House of the Fountain as with that of the House of Earendil - not that anyone ever asked Erestor's opinion on the matter, or whether he wanted to inherit the entire gloomy history of his house, golden-haired fools included.In other news: Elrond meddles, Celebrían sends flowers, Galadriel and Celeborn give advice, Thranduil gets on everyone's nerves, the dwarves raid the wine-cellar, and the Witch-King of Angmar does his very best to ruin everything.





	The Ghosts of Gondolin

Fate threads and coils in mysterious ways, following a pattern we cannot comprehend until it is finished, weaving the fabric of our lives.

The day that changed his life should have been remarkable, but in hindsight, Erestor reflected, it had begun like any other day.

He woke up at dawn and lay quite still for a moment, listening to a blackbird greet the morning in the magnolia tree just outside his window. He lit the lamps in his rooms, then washed, dressed and combed out his long black hair. Erestor took pride in his hair. It was the envy of many an elf maiden, and even though it was common for male elves to wear their hair long and in elaborate hairstyles, none of them paid as much attention to it as Erestor did. He allowed himself few vanities, but this was one of them.

After he had combed and braided it to his satisfaction, he watered the lilies he kept in a pot on the windowsill and fed his striped cat. He then gathered his notebook and pen and the leather folder that contained everything from pantry inventory lists to designs for new furniture that the carpenters had proposed. Imladris was home to a still growing community of elves of all ages and origins and running the household was a task that required expert negotiating skills, extraordinary organizational talent and near-divine patience. Erestor possessed the first two. He was still working on the third.

He joined those members of the household who were already up in the hall for breakfast, engaging in a bit of conversation with one of the cooks and with the tailor, Limre. Each adult member of the household was assigned a task, depending on his or her individual skills and training. Those who had arrived at Imladris with no particular training, or been born into the Valley such as Limre, went through an apprenticeship overseen by one of the senior members of the household. It was not a perfect system, but so far, it had served them well.

The cook complained of a plague of snails attacking the strawberries in the gardens, and Erestor promised to look into it. "Poisoning them will not do," the cook explained, "we would poison half the garden in the process."  
"You could have some of the children help you collect them," Erestor suggested. "I am afraid I do not have a magic recipe against ravenous snails, but I will speak to Leliand. Maybe she knows a remedy."  
Quietly, the cook thanked him and went his way.

Limre joined him and began talking animatedly. She suggested that even though the climate was not ideal for it, they might give keeping silkworms a try.

"Livestock is Halen's purview," Erestor said, "you should take it up with him."

Limre, who did not get along well with Halen, frowned. "It is silkworms, Erestor, not cows or goats! They will not take up much space."

"They are alive, and they are not plants or people, hence they are livestock," Erestor persisted. "Ask Halen."

He liked Limre well, having watched her grow from adorable child into lively, warm-hearted adult and become a superb weaver and tailor. She had been the first child born in the Valley, shortly after the foundation of Imladris, and as such, she was dear to his heart. She was also incredibly stubborn.

He finished his tea and left the hall in search of the master of the house. Elrond had asked to be briefed about the progress of the construction of two pavilions that would serve as guest quarters and might be turned into permanent living quarters if the household continued to grow.

Since the door to Elrond's study was left ajar, and Erestor did not expect to find him in any sort of compromising situation (this was Elrond, after all), he walked right inside. To his surprise, he did not find the lord of Imladris alone.

And thus, Erestor's ordinary day turned remarkable all of a sudden: he took one good look at the visitor and stopped frozen in his tracks, mouth left slightly agape, staring unbelievingly.

Elrond's guest was another elf. He wore plain, unadorned travelling attire, and yet he shone as if lit by an inner light. His golden hair hung loose and unbraided, swept over one shoulder and upon Erestor's entry he looked up. His eyes were an impossible shade of blue, the ocean in the light of a dying day, inviting you to drown in them. Erestor knew those eyes. Those eyes and those golden locks and that beautiful, slightly arrogant face.

But he had never, never in his strangest dreams expected to see them again. And right now, his mind refused to believe what he was seeing.

_No. This is not possible. Glorfindel did not have a son, or a nephew, or a younger brother. He did not have a sister, or a cousin, or a daughter. The house of the Golden Flower vanished the day he died._

"Good morning, Erestor," Elrond greeted him, calm and composed as ever. "You seem a bit startled."

"That," Erestor said, tearing his eyes away from the familiar stranger and forcing himself to look at his friend and liege lord, "would be the most serious understatement of this age of the world. Either I am hallucinating, in which case I should probably go back to bed, or I am still dreaming."

"Neither," the stranger said. "I can assure you, I am perfectly real, and I would never invade another's dreams unasked." He got up and bowed to Erestor. "I do not believe we have met yet. My name is Glorfindel."

"You are dead," Erestor told him flatly.

Glorfindel exchanged a quick glance with Elrond and sighed mournfully. The reaction seemed absurdly inappropriate to Erestor. "This is what I feared."

"Erestor," Elrond said kindly, turning his head to face him again, "I know this is hard to believe, but it is truly him and he is truly alive."

 _And how do you know that, Elrond, having never met him before?_ Erestor thought acidly. He was not in the habit of questioning or disregarding his friend's judgment, he had seen him proven right too many times, but in this instance Elrond's assumption went against the very laws of nature. _The dead may rise from their graves in our darkest dreams, but never in broad daylight. I saw him fall._

They were watching him, he noticed. Two pairs of eyes, one grey and one blue... one as familiar as the other. Past and present united in one gaze. He shook his head.

"You could come riding into the Valley on your white horse, singing Bershe's Lament and wearing the cloak Lady Ersinoë made for you, sparkling with a hundred golden stars, and I still would not believe you. You fell into an abyss darker than a moonless night. You died a long time ago. The dead do not return."

"And yet I am here." Whoever he was, his impression of Glorfindel's casual arrogance, born of the knowledge that he was superior to many of his contemporaries in both looks and skills, was excellent.

Erestor stared at the stranger for another minute or so, his dark eyes narrowing further. Then he tore his gaze away and looked at Elrond. "No," he finally said brusquely, "if it were him, he would remember me." He turned on his heel, adding: "I will return to my rooms. I trust you will call for me if you need me."

As exits went, it was a rather melodramatic one, but Erestor was too troubled to realize that.

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel and Elrond both stared at the door in considerable dismay, until finally, the newly arrived guest turned back to ask the master of the house: "Exactly who is he and why should I remember him?"

He was rather puzzled by this strange dark-haired elf and his odd behavior. He believed to have understood that Erestor held an important position within the household, one that would allow him to address the Lord of Imladris frankly and without reserve. The vehemence with which he had been rejected surprised him, though. It was too deep and personal to be attributed to mere distrust.

"Erestor is my head of household and chief counselor, and a dear friend," Elrond explained. "As for why you should remember him, you will have to ask him yourself. I can only guess that you met before the Fall of Gondolin, although that assumption makes Erestor quite a bit older than I thought him to be." He seemed thoughtful.

Glorfindel shook his head. "My memories are hazy still, but I am sure I would remember him. Is he always this abrupt?" The word _rude_ lingered on the tip of his tongue, but he thought it best not to insult Elrond's friend within hours of his arrival at Imladris.

To his surprise, Elrond smiled. "Erestor has a gentle heart, and he tries to protect it by shielding it with heavy armor. His manners are not usually this lacking, but he detests surprises, and this was probably one of the greatest he has experienced so far."

"Well," Glorfindel said after a moment's contemplation, "in that case, I will search him out later and make my apologies. I would rather be his friend than his adversary, especially since you love him well and trust him before all others."

"It may take you a while to win him over," Elrond warned him. "Especially if it turns out that you have met before and that you simply forgot him." He raised his brows at Glorfindel. "He is not the most forgiving creature in this realm."

Glorfindel spread his hands as if to say, I apologize, but is that my fault? "Prickly, is he, your chief counselor? In that case, I shall have to use my fabled charm. He looks like a pretty maiden, and I have always been lucky with those. Maybe he will be as easy to convince as they are." He grinned, his sense of humor returning as he recovered from the consternation the encounter had produced.

Elrond chuckled. "You had better not let Erestor hear you say that. For one of his intelligence and learning, he is remarkably short-tempered."

And by himself he thought: _Well, this is going to be interesting._

He loved Erestor dearly, and even though he was yet unsure what to make of Glorfindel's sudden arrival, it was not his place to question the ways of the Valar and their decision to send him back. But he did wonder whether his sheltered little realm might be too small a place to house both of them at once.

_This is not Gondolin._

 

* * *

 

 

Erestor was still trembling when he returned to his quiet rooms, his hands clenched into tight fists. He had never known such turbulence of mind, such trepidation. It was as if his whole world had turned upside down.

 _It cannot be._ The dead did not rise from their graves, and the Valar certainly were not in a habit of sending people back to face the plight and agonies of mortal life a second time.

With shaking hands, he poured himself a cup of water, spilling half of it. A soft curse escaped him.

_What is this foolishness? And why does Elrond not question his tale?_

Erestor trusted his friend's judgment, his intuition, even his hunches. In fact, there was not a living being he loved and trusted more than Elrond. But might not even Elrond be deceived by a clever imposter?

_And if so, is he in any danger?_

He already regretted his rushed departure from the study and had half a mind to go back there. He was unsure if he could face the intruder again, though.

_It looked like him... his eyes, his hair, his haughty looks... I recognized every detail, and how could it be possible to create such an exact replica? After so many years, too..._

Visions and memories assaulted him, images he had long kept locked away in the deep confines of his heart and mind. A city, rising bright and beautiful in the morning light. Laughter and music at a feast, and a circle of dancers. The clash of swords as two young warriors measured their strength against each other, sunlight gleaming on their armor and cheering rising from the crowd of spectators.

_"Ecthelion!" - "What is it, little brother?" "Glorfindel has come, he is in the courtyard, awaiting you, oh, might I ride with you today?" Laughter from the elder as he scooped him up and whirled him about. "No, little one. You are barely able to keep in the saddle and hold the reins. You need to grow and learn before you may ride with us." - "But Ecthelion, please..."_

Horses, steaming and snorting, and the hair of warriors flying in the wind, gold and dark alike. Gleaming shields and helmets, and the sound of trumpets...

... a warrior, tall and beautiful, a ring of golden flowers upon his brow, seated at the high table amid his companions, laughing and talking. Wine being poured into a goblet.

_"Careful now, do not spill a drop. Take this to our guest." The kind voice of the lady of the house, and a child's solemn nod in response. Balancing the goblet carefully, placing one foot in front of the other, like a dancer. Standing next to the golden warrior, bowing his head. "My lord, the lady of the house wishes you joy and asks you to make this house your own." His voice wavering a little, and laughter from the guest as he takes the cup. "I thank you, child, and give my thanks to the lady also."_

And then suddenly there was fire, and smoke and the clatter of weaponry. Screams, such terribly screams. Death and dark blood, and a city in ruins and ashes...

_"Ecthelion!" - "He has fallen, Erestor, but this is not the time to grief, we must away ere they find us!" - "Nooooo!" A drawn-out howl of despair. "Ecthelion! Ecthelion!"_

Brother, friend, idol. Where are you now? Why did you not return to me?

_"Esril, what happened to the others? Why are there so few of us? Will they join us later?" - "Hush, child." - "But Esril, why can we not go back?" "Because there is nothing to go back to. We have no home now, little one, there is nothing left." "But the king, and the warriors, and all our neighbors...! Esril, Esril, what happened to Glorfindel? Will he find us?" Tears in the eyes of the gentle elf maiden as she held him close to her chest, whispering: "Oh, Erestor, do not you know? He, too, has fallen. He died protecting us, fighting the Balrog. He slew it, too." And helpless sobs rising in his throats as he realized that they were truly alone now, alone and friendless and without protection..._

A knock roused him from the memories and he noticed that his cheeks were wet with fresh tears. He went to the stone basin in the corner to splash his face with cold water, and when he looked into the mirror hung upon the wall, his own eyes stared back at him, dark and hollow with a grief that would never truly fade.

The knock came again, a bit hesitant this time.

"Enter," Erestor called, and the door opened to admit the very person he had least wished to see.

"Is this an inconvenient time?" The stranger asked in a soft, pleasant voice. Glorfindel's voice. A warm tenor, a few shades higher than Ecthelion's, and suited for song and laughter. _Their voices, mingling in song, and a sweet soprano joining them..._ Erestor shut his eyes briefly and swallowed hard, trying to regain some measure of self-control. He failed.

"Have you come to torment me? Did I do you any wrong, and is this your revenge?" He asked shakily.

The other frowned.

"You said you knew me. That we had met before. I am sorry if my presence causes you discomfort and I apologize for not remembering you. I am still new at... all of this. When I awoke upon the shores of this land, I barely remembered my own name, let alone those of others... but some memories are returning to me. Maybe I will remember you one day." His blue eyes studied Erestor's face as if looking for something to recognize.

"What is your purpose here?" Erestor asked.

"I have not come to trouble or torment you, or cause you any grief," the other assured him hastily. "I was sent back with a mission. There is a debt I must pay, and it has been decided that I should stay with the descendants of Eärendil and offer my council and my protection, such as I may."

Erestor stared at him. "You want to stay? Here, at Imladris?"

"If Lord Elrond will have me."

Erestor shook his head violently. "No."

The other looked at him for a long moment and there was a melancholy apology in his voice when he replied: "That is not for you to decide."

 

* * *

 

 

And so Glorfindel's ghost, much to Erestor's dismay, made a home for himself at the Last Homely House. Erestor had taken to calling him a ghost, because he was incapable of accepting the alternative - that Glorfindel had, in fact, returned. He kept a close watch on the newly arrived and was prepared to strike at the first sign of trouble, but none came.

Weeks passed. Months.

Glorfindel settled in, met the other residents of Imladris, learned their names and histories. Soon, Elrond placed him in charge of the household guard, a task he embraced with enthusiasm. He was often seen on the training grounds, practicing his skills and passing them on to others and always attracting a large crowd of spectators.

At night, he would join the other members of the household in the hall, talking, laughing, drinking, and singing, and sharing stories by the fire. He was open and sociable, charming and ready to laugh at the silliest of jokes, and they loved him for it.

All but one.

Erestor was like a dark shadow, hovering behind him. Tailing him, watching him.

And all the while he was aware of the ghost watching him, too, trying to unravel the mystery of where they had met before. Erestor refused to give him so much as a hint. In fact, he tried to avoid talking to him altogether.

Elrond watched them both and after a while decided that this could not go on much longer and something had to be done about it. One day, he called his friend to the side.

"Erestor," he said, "will you not accept that he is really himself and has returned to us by the will and the power of the Valar?"

Erestor shook his head, his face tight.

Elrond sighed. "You are worrying me, my friend."

"Good," Erestor said firmly. "For you should worry. Though not necessarily about me."

"Erestor, he means no harm. His words are as sincere as his actions."

"Or maybe he is just waiting for something."

Elrond paced the room, a habit that supposedly helped him to sort out his thoughts. It only served to annoy Erestor, who remained seated, watching him. "Why do you distrust him? What has he done to merit such wariness?"

"I was there, Elrond," Erestor said simply. "And I know how preciously few escaped. He was not one of them."

"You never told me about your past..." Elrond said tentatively.

"And you never asked, which I appreciate."

"Erestor..."

"No." Erestor swallowed hard; the deep loyalty and affection he felt towards Elrond rebelled against this act of defiance, but this he could not share, not even with a friend.

"I am your counselor, Elrond," he said, "and I will give you counsel, whether you wish to hear it or not: send him away. Send him away before he has a chance to harm you or destroy what we have struggled to build in this Valley. A safe haven. A last homely house. He is an intruder and an impostor."

"I refuse to believe that." Elrond could be unpleasantly stubborn at times.

"Your heart is pure," Erestor said. "But I have never known you to be naive. Your trust is misplaced here. He has offered no proof. There has been no sign, and even if there had been, you know that I mistrust them."

"Question him, then." Elrond suggested cunningly.

"Anyone who is interested can read up the story of the Fall of Gondolin and Glorfindel was one of its heroes. One might even question the survivors."

"Not if they all are as reluctant to share their stories as you are," Elrond replied, his voice tinged with a sarcasm that Erestor chose to ignore. It pained him to oppose his friend, but this was one battlefield on which he would not cede an inch of ground. It was too important to make Elrond realize the grave and dangerous error he was about to commit.

"I assure you, whoever he is, he is not Glorfindel. It is not possible. You have always trusted my word, trust my memory now. I watched him fall."

"I am not questioning his death," Elrond argued. "Merely your refusal to believe in his return."

"What are you saying, that he died and miraculously rose from the dead after years and years? I do not believe in miracles. Growing up in the shadow of a fallen city, with the shades of a dead people haunting me taught me better."

_Fire and smoke, and screams. The smell of burning wood, burning flesh. "Run, child! Flee!"_

"Why is this the first time I hear you mention Gondolin?" Elrond asked, a silent accusation in his eyes.

Erestor swallowed the bitter bile that rose in his throat. "Gondolin is an open wound that will never fully scar. I left a part of my soul there, a part of myself, a part I can never recover." He rose from his chair, brushing his black hair back over one shoulder, preparing to leave. This conversation seemed pointless now. Elrond would not be swayed, he realized. "It took me years until I learnt to shut out the memories. Letting them seep back into my conscious mind by speaking of it also lets the pain back in. Can you blame me for choosing not to be in pain?"

Elrond sighed, shook his head and let him go.

 

* * *

 

 

All in all, Glorfindel's second life, as he chose to call it, had turned out much better than he had expected. He felt comfortable at Imladris and in the knowledge that he had a task to fulfill. He had also come to like and respect Elrond.

Despite his lineage, Glorfindel had never been a true leader. He was a general, not a ruler. He could lead a host into battle and through it, but the subtleties of politics and diplomacy puzzled him. Elrond, however, understood both, wartime and peace, politics and battlefield. Here was one he could follow, and gladly. A lord to respect, protect and counsel.

Although not so much the last, as Elrond rarely found himself in need of advice, and when he did, he had Erestor to turn to.

Erestor, who just so happened to be the one mystery Glorfindel had so far failed to unravel. It was quite obvious that the chief counselor both distrusted and disliked him, for Erestor was not one to hide his true feelings. Glorfindel actually appreciated that, but he wished that they could have been on better terms, if only for Elrond's sake.

It was not for lack of trying on his part, he paid Erestor every courtesy, tried to engage him in conversation whenever he could and complimented him on his achievements, such as the completion of the two newly added pavilions. But to no avail, Erestor was adamant in his refusal to befriend him.

 _I wonder what I did to him._ Many of his memories had returned, a slow but steady flow, and yet he still could not remember who Erestor was and where they had met before. He had tried to apply logic to the problem; if they had indeed met before, then Erestor must be from Gondolin. Maybe a scion of one of the lesser houses? One of the warriors he had let in battle? But that seemed improbable, since Erestor had the air of a scholar and never showed up on the training grounds.

Glorfindel had to admit to himself that as the only and most beloved son of the House of the Golden Flower, he had never paid much attention to his inferiors. Erestor might very well have been a footman serving one of the other lords, a scribe or accountant, or maybe an artisan.

_Maybe I passed him every day on the street and he is hurt, because I do not remember him..._

He had asked Elrond about it, time and time again, but without gaining much insight into Erestor's mysterious past. Either Elrond knew little of his friend's origin, or he refused to tell Glorfindel.

"Where did you meet him?"

"Lady Galadriel sent him to me when she heard of my plan to found Imladris. She said that I needed an advisor, and he needed a task that kept him from wandering the world aimlessly in search of something he had lost and would never find again. I did not know, then, that he came from Gondolin." He paused, as if remembering those long-lost days. "She also said that we had each lost a brother and would find consolation in a friend." And looking up, he asked: "He is not _your_ brother, is he?"

"I do think I would remember my brother, had I ever had one," Glorfindel said, slightly affronted. "There is also an obvious lack of family resemblance."

"True," Elrond admitted and they each went their ways, pondering the mystery that was Erestor.

It had not taken Glorfindel very long to determine that whoever Erestor had been in his past life, he had become a formidable figure in this one. Behind every strong leader, there is a loyal second in command, who counsels, comforts and protects. Often, in Glorfindel's experience, that position was held by a spouse, especially in peacetime, but since Elrond was unmarried, Erestor filled the void and admirably so. He was foremost among Elrond's counselors and head of his household, seneschal of Imladris. A lord in his own right, and such addressed by most of the household, he had been by Elrond's side when they had first set foot into the Valley. Imladris was his creation as much as Elrond's. He knew every stone of its walls and every living thing within them and there was very little that escaped his notice.

Glorfindel watched him move through the large house with a familiarity that spoke of many years spent there, watched him stride confidently but without arrogance through its halls and corridors and exchange a greeting with everyone he passed. From Elrond down to the youngest elfling, all of Imladris came to Erestor with their problems, great and small, expecting him to solve them and he did. He was wise in his counsel, gentle where he could, but firm where it was needed. It was not difficult to see an iron strength of will beneath his beguilingly delicate exterior. Though small for one of his race, with finely carven features too lovely for his gender, Erestor was about as malleable as a diamond... and moreover one with sharp edges. Glorfindel brushed past those a few times and quickly learnt not to underestimate him. Yet still his memory failed to return, and Erestor was adamant in his refusal to remind him of it.

After a few months he realized that his preoccupation with Erestor was becoming an obsession and told Elrond about that, too.

"You cannot force the memories to return," Elrond said. "It will come to you on its own time, like all the others have. The smallest thing may trigger it, a word, a sound or a scent."

That was not very comforting, and not what he had hoped for.

"Is there no faster way?"

Elrond shook his head.

Glorfindel sighed and went back to his trainees, and his weapons and his horse, all the while watching the seneschal from afar and wondering who he had been.

 

* * *

 

 

One night, as they sat by the fire, the minstrel Firavel handed him her harp and asked him to play a song for them. "Everyone is tired of hearing my voice and those same old songs!" she said laughing, and a chorus of protests rose from the others, for Firavel had a beautiful voice and everyone loved her songs. "Oh hush", the minstrel said. "Sing a song for us, Glorfindel. Something we have not heard before."

Glorfindel had never been able to resist a charming smile, and so to the cheering of those around him took up the harp and began to play.

It was a song from Gondolin, he knew no others. He sang it as he remembered it and it brought tears to his eyes, but he took pains to hide them. It was one of the songs his mother had loved, a song about the beauty of small things, of flowers, a smile, a birdsong. She had always paid attention to details, his mother. So much she sometimes lost sight of the bigger picture.

His recollections were interrupted by much cheering and clapping as he finished the song. Everyone seemed to have enjoyed it, and many were asking for another.

But one face stood out in the crowd, pale and startled.

There was such raw pain in Erestor's dark eyes that Glorfindel could not help but cringe. They stared at one another for a long moment, and then Erestor fled the room.

Glorfindel, shaken, returned the harp to Firavel. "I am truly sorry," he apologized, "I must leave you now. But I promise to sing again for you another time."

"We will hold you to your promise!" Halen said, and many others agreed.

Glorfindel smiled faintly at them, got up and followed Erestor, leaving the hall.

Outside, it was snowing, tiny white crystals dancing in the cold air. It was the first snow that winter, and if it lingered, the children would have snow fights in the gardens on the morrow. He found Erestor on a terrace, a slight dark figure in the gray half-light and certainly not dressed for the weather.

He did not turn, but Glorfindel could see him tense as he approached.

And then suddenly, recollection struck him. Dark hair, blowing in the cold wind, glistening with snowflakes. Dark eyes, looking up at him, large and shaded by long lashes. A face, with features too delicate and lovelier than the evening star on a moonless night.

A petite, dark sliver of a child, constantly in motion, and so endearingly earnest in everything he did, as if by the simplest of actions, he could alter the fate of the world if he was not careful.

Small hands, reaching up to hand him a golden cup. _"My lord, the lady of the house wishes you joy and asks you to make this house your own."_

"Erestor." He said the name in wonder. Memories assaulted him, sudden and piercing as a swarm of arrows. _The high hall, dancers beneath a ceiling of stone branches, delicate and intertwining. Ecthelion, kneeling next to a small boy, pointing upwards._ _"Do you know who made those?" The child shakes his head. "Your father." Round eyes filled with wonder. "My father?" Ecthelion nods. "Many years before you were born. There was no stonemason in all of Gondolin who had his talent."_

_... shooting practice in the courtyard and teaching him to hold a bow. "Like this," Glorfindel says, gently adjusting the child's grip. "Think of the bow as a part of you, not an alien object."_

_... a boy nibbling on a honey cake and feeding a piece of it to a splendid white horse. "Do not let Glorfindel catch you do that," Ecthelion warns, his voice amused. "Catch him do what...? Erestor! What have I told you about feeding him honey cakes...?" Dark eyes, wide and innocent. "But he likes them..." "They are bad for his teeth." "That is what Lady Elara_ _ël says about me, too." And Ecthelion's laughter, ah, his laughter..._

"Why?" It was barely more than a whisper.

Glorfindel felt a hot surge of guilt assaulting him. "You are Ecthelion's brother."

_Ecthelion's brother. How could I simply forget about you, when he stands out from all the other faded memories? You were a part of him, you were always about the house, and at his heels..._

Erestor regarded him for a long moment, his face unreadable. "No," he said finally, "not his brother. Merely a younger cousin from a lesser branch of the house. Taken in by the Lord and the Lady of the House of the Fountain when I was orphaned as a child."

Glorfindel frowned in confusion. "But Ecthelion called you _little brother_..."

Erestor laughed a humorless laugh. "Ecthelion called everyone his brother. Including you."

The accusation in his voice stung.

"Erestor, I am truly sorry. I do not know why I was sent back, and he was not." _But I miss_ _him. I miss him with every fiber of my being... him and Gondolin, but then, to me, they were one and the same, Ecthelion was Gondolin, and Gondolin was Ecthelion, and I loved them so..._

"But why _did_ you come back? And why so late?"

Glorfindel had no answer to that, but he tried to explain as best as he could. "I was sent back with a mission..."

"To protect and to serve the heirs of Eärendil."

"Yes."

Erestor turned away angrily, staring out into the snow. "I do not believe you."

Glorfindel sighed. "I know," he said, "but what can I do to make you believe me? Shall I tell you about the little boy I remember, following Ecthelion around, awed by his accomplishments? The one always carrying a book around and hiding it away at the table, so the lady of the house would not see it and scold him for it? You used to make us laugh, Ecthelion and me, you were always so serious."

"You barely noticed me," Erestor whispered, his face still averted. "You were everybody's beloved heroes, and I was merely a clumsy child."

"That is not true," Glorfindel replied, "Ecthelion loved you very much. He would tuck you in and tell you stories and defend you when someone spoke harshly to you. It sometimes made me wish that I had a brother, too, someone to look after and protect, someone who would follow me around wide-eyed and curious."

Erestor turned around, anguish on his face. "He is _dead_." His voice was choked with tears. "They all are."

Glorfindel swallowed, nodding silently. Images of Ecthelion and of the ladies of the House of the Fountain, his mother and sister, pale and beautiful as the moon, were on his mind. Ecthelion, greatest warrior of Gondolin, with his voice strong and full as a great bell, and so ready to laugh and break into song. Ersinoё, his sister, gentle and shy. And the Lady Elaraël, most accomplished of all the ladies of the great houses of Gondolin, kind and sorrowful with grief for her husband.

"Why now?" Erestor's angry voice chased the memories away. "Why did you come back now? Why not while we were on the run, fleeing, struggling to survive? We could have used your help then."

_Why indeed... what must they have endured, during the flight? Those few, those last survivors, lost and alone? Valar! Why did you not send me back sooner? I might have helped. Maybe I could have saved some of them..._

"I do not know, Erestor. It was neither my decision to make, nor did I have any say in the matter. But I wish I could have been there... I wish... I wish your brother had been sent back in my stead, so that you could be with him once more. I never had a brother, and no family to return to, they all died when Gondolin fell. But I did not choose this fate, it was chosen for me."

He reached out, putting a hand on Erestor's arm. The other flinched as if he had struck him and Glorfindel quickly withdrew.

_Whatever I do, I keep making things worse..._

"Come back inside, please. It is very cold out here."

"It was colder when we were running for our lives in the snow, with no hope and no shelter," Erestor said and refused to follow him into the hall.

 

* * *

 

 

A few days later, Elrond descended upon him like a great eagle whose nest had been robbed. Glorfindel had spent those days in a daze, remembering, mourning, despairing of the injustice of his situation.

"Glorfindel," Elrond said, walking into his rooms, "what have you done to my chief counselor?"

Glorfindel looked up from the breast plate he had been polishing. Concern rose in his heart, momentarily drowning out the grief. "Is aught amiss with Erestor?"

"You could say that," Elrond said, sitting down in a chair across from him. "He has been hiding in his rooms for two days, occasionally throwing things at anyone who dares to approach him. Galreäd, the baker, tried to tempt him with fresh pastries and was hit by a book. He now refuses to go anywhere near that place, even though he and Erestor used to be fast friends, spending much time together in the kitchens and the pantry. Erestor has a bit of a sweet tooth, you see, and Galreäd considers himself an artist, so they usually stick their heads together and try to come up with astonishing new creations."

Glorfindel was once again struck with a memory of a much younger Erestor, nibbling on a honey-cake, his face and fingers sticky, but smiling happily. "I remember him now," he said slowly.

Curiosity stirred in Elrond's expression and he leant forward. "Is that so? And what do you remember?"

"I knew him when he was a child. He was reared in the House of the Fountain, Ecthelion's house. Ecthelion treated him as a little brother. He was still a child when Gondolin fell... the Valar only know how he made it out alive, he must have been exceptionally lucky."

"I am not so sure if I would call losing one's home and family lucky," Elrond said. "Did you speak to him?"

"Yes. And I am afraid I upset him."

"Well, that would explain his odd behavior." Elrond paused for a moment, before adding: "You broke it, and therefore you will mend it, Glorfindel. Speak to him again. Try to find a way to get through to him."

"He hates me," Glorfindel protested. "I am surely the last person he wishes to see now."

"While that may be true, I cannot have a sulking head of household for the next few weeks. Not with the impeding visit of the Lady Galadriel and her escort."

"Elrond," Glorfindel warned, "I will only make things worse. He resents me for coming back when Ecthelion did not, and for not being there when the survivors of the Fall were running for their lives. I have no talent for comforting others, and he does not want my apologies."

"Try," Elrond said sternly. And in a lighter tone of voice he added: "You might want to bring your shield for protection. Erestor has sharp eyes and very good aim."

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel did not bring his shield, but he approached the door to Erestor's rooms rather warily. He was quite sure that this was a bad idea, but Elrond had made it clear that he expected results.

Right now, though, it looked as if the most likely result of this approach would be Erestor killing or seriously maiming Glorfindel.

"Erestor," he called out, "if I promise to come unarmed, will you refrain from throwing sharp objects at me?"

The only response he got was a thud, as something not too heavy collided with the half-opened door.

"Or maybe not," Glorfindel muttered. "You know," he said aloud, "I liked you much better when you were a child, asking to be allowed to hold my sword or pet my horse."

No answer.

"You used to like horses, and mine at least liked you. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that you kept feeding it honey cakes, even after I had told you not to do so."

Silence. Glorfindel sighed.

"I'm coming in now," he announced. "You are welcome to attack me, but please remember that I am about twice your size and capable of slaying a Balrog."

He slipped inside, carefully closing the door behind himself. No heavy objects were flung at him. Good.

Erestor was in the far corner of the room, huddled in the window seat. A striped cat sat next to him, turning its head to look at Glorfindel from yellow eyes. Glorfindel noticed a crashed flowerpot and some dead lilies on the floor.

He approached carefully, noting that there was nothing throwable within immediate range of Erestor.

"Elrond worries about you," he said. "And it seems that you scared Galreäd, too."

Another step. Two, three. He would have been able to touch Erestor now, if he had stretched out a hand.

"You cannot hide in here forever," he remarked. "Not with the guests from Lothlorien on their way and Elrond fretting as if it was Manwe in person paying him a visit."

"Elrond loves the Lady Celebrían," Erestor offered in a muffled voice.

Glorfindel stared at him, taken aback by that statement, but he immediately saw an opening and grasped the chance. "Oh really," he said, "and who is she?"

"The daughter of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn." Erestor's reply sounded as if he thought Glorfindel rather stupid for asking such a question.

"An advantageous match, I presume," Glorfindel said. "And is she very beautiful?" A memory of Ersinoë came to his mind unbidden, he saw her in the garden outside Erestor's window, playing with her maidens and a white greyhound. _"My sister is very fair, is she not?"_ Ecthelion said next to him. Glorfindel looked at him sideways. _"How could she not be...?"_ He asked his friend. _"You have the same mother. And I promise you, I will love her for your sake, and cherish her as you do." "I would rather you did not love her as a sister,"_ Ecthelion said earnestly.

Back in the present, Erestor shrugged indifferently. "She is fair, with long golden hair and green eyes."

"I can see that your interests lie elsewhere," Glorfindel teased, "either you are not impressed by golden hair, or by the fairer sex. Or maybe both." In his mind, he caught Ecthelion's disapproving gaze. _Hark who is talking. You should not tease my brother about your faults, Glorfindel..._

"It is Elrond who wants to marry her, not I."

"Ah, but he needs your help," Glorfindel said shrewdly. "He needs to impress the lady and her mother, and since he is hapless at running his own household or organizing feasts, he is desperate for your assistance. If I were you, I would take advantage of that. Is there anything you want of him and that he might grant you as a favor?"

A glint appeared in Erestor's eyes. "I suppose I could ask him to send _you_ away," he said.

Glorfindel cursed himself. He had not seen that coming. "And what would you gain from that?" He asked.

"My peace of mind," Erestor hissed, "which you stole, when you barged into my life, bringing back memories I thought long-forgotten."

_He acts like a wounded animal cornered by hunters. Would that I knew how to help him!_

"Elrond said you had a gentle heart," Glorfindel said softly, "and that you protected it by shielding it with heavy armor. I can see that now. But no matter what armor you don, Erestor, you cannot hide from me. For I will always see the gentle, curious child you once were. And I cannot tell you how much it pains me to think that I have hurt you. But we are both survivors, we have both struggled and lost all we loved. Maybe we can help each other."

"I do not want your help," Erestor huffed.

_I can see that. You are proud. A flaw of your house, perhaps. Ecthelion was, too._

Glorfindel took that last step forward, hovering above him. "You are getting it anyway. I owe that much to your brother." _Forgive me, Ecthelion..._

"He was not my brother," Erestor protested, sounding close to tears of helpless rage.

 _Ecthelion, cradling a small, sleeping child in his arms. "He is so tiny. Where did he come from?"_  
"You are a fool, Glorfindel! Where we all come from. His mother's womb, I should say."  
"I meant, how is he related to you?"  
"His father was a cousin. He died, you must have heard of the accident."  
"And the mother?"  
Sorrow in Ecthelion's gaze. "She followed her husband. She stayed just long enough to give birth to her son before she left the mortal realms. My mother says, she had not the strength to live while he was not with her."  
"Poor child! So, he has no one...?"  
"He has me, now."

"He loved you as a brother, and you love him still, so yes, he was."

Tears filled Erestor's dark eyes as he looked up. "Go away, Glorfindel."

"No. I will stay, and I will grieve with you. I have not properly grieved for anyone since I was washed upon the shores of this realm. I was too afraid to truly face those memories. But if I am not alone, then maybe it is not so bad." He reached out and drew the other up from his seat by the window. As expected, Erestor fought his touch, but his protests were rather weak. Lack of food and sleep, Glorfindel assumed.

"Come now," he said, "there is no one here but me, and I will not tell anyone. You are free to cry for him, for all of them, if you wish. Your reputation as the detached, unshakeable ruler of this household will not suffer."

Erestor gave a startled little half-drowned chuckle. "Is this how you see me?"

"Well, at least until Elrond told me that you had taken to throwing things at others. That did not quite fit the picture." He looked down at Erestor. "But I can see it clearly now: you were in need of comfort, my friend."

Erestor's eyes narrowed dangerously, and in that one moment, he looked so much like Ecthelion that the image sent a physical stab of pain through Glorfindel's chest. "Oh no, you will _not_."

"Hush," Glorfindel said and drew the struggling elf into a tight embrace that he could not escape from. "There you go. Stop fidgeting, you are giving me more bruises than one of my trainees with his first wooden sword. I will not be able to show myself in the communal baths for a week, lest somebody think that I have taken to brawling."

He was easily able to subdue Erestor, who had all of his brother's mental strength and more, but none of his physical strength, so much of his fussing was just for show.

"You are treating me like a child," Erestor complained.

_To me, you still are..._

"Because you are behaving like one. Something about me apparently makes you wish to relive your childhood. It is an understandable wish, since Ecthelion spoiled you rotten, but Elrond would be rather taken aback if you reverted to your old habits of following people around and hiding books under the table."

"I hate you," Erestor said with fervor.

"Oh, I am well aware of that. But I am not your enemy. I would be your friend, if you let me."

Erestor grew quiet at that. Too quiet.

"You can decide on that later," Glorfindel said, even though the rejection stung. "For now, let us get you cleaned up and fed and delivered to Elrond's study, so he can plague you with his concerns about the guests from Lothlorien."

 

* * *

 

 

After that, they settled into an uneasy truce.

Glorfindel, for his part, was glad that Erestor now spoke civilly to him and even occasionally consented to share a meal or discuss matters of the household. He felt that he owed it to Ecthelion to do all he could for his little brother. In a way, befriending Erestor was making amends for his failure to save the rest of the family.

Erestor, on the other hand, was still eyeing him warily, but had resigned himself to the fact that like the persistent fogs that shrouded the valley, Glorfindel was unlikely to go away anytime soon.

The guests from Lothlorien arrived, and he had other concerns than his memories and the Lord of the Golden Flower, arranging for guest quarters, planning meals and organizing music and merriment. As on her last visit, he found the Lady Celebrían to be a very charming guest, delighted with and interested in everything, eager to please and to chat with anyone, no matter what their rank or station. He was painfully aware of Elrond watching her with lovesick eyes, but that was a problem his friend would have to figure out on his own. The lady herself seemed certainly not averse to the match, and if Elrond failed to see that, well, bad luck for him.

He made amends to Galreäd, supplying him with a book of new recipes for pastries he had recently discovered, and together they conceived a spectacular cake for the great feast held in honor of their guests.

Lady Celebrían seemed delighted with it, and lent over to Elrond to whisper something, which - for some reason - made him blush like a boy. Erestor caught Lady Galadriel's conspiratorial wink and decided that, apparently, she was not averse to her daughter getting friendly with Elrond, either.

It actually seemed as if everybody wished them joy, and Elrond was the only one who could not see it.

"How can someone this wise suddenly be so incredibly foolish?" Erestor asked under his breath.

"It is called love," a cheerful voice said behind him, "and I am sure you will experience it, too, sooner or later."

Erestor looked up to find that Glorfindel had approached him silently.

"It looks rather painful," he replied, "I think I will pass on that one."

Glorfindel laughed. "I am told it is not something one chooses."

 

* * *

 

 

In the final days of their guests' extended visit, Erestor was busy preparing for their departure, arranging for an escort, for provisions, and fodder for their horses.

Elrond, it seemed, had still not made much progress with Lady Celebrían, and it was clear to anyone but him that she was growing exceedingly frustrated with him. Her mother watched, smiled and said nothing, but Erestor was pretty sure that if this went on much longer, even Lady Galadriel would lose her patience and sit Elrond down for a good long talk.

Finally, on the day before the company was set to depart, Lady Celebrían had grown exasperated enough to ask Elrond if he simply did not like her or had taken an oath of celibacy that prevented him from acting on his feelings.

She did so standing in the greenhouse, which she and Elrond had explored that morning - he had apparently utterly failed to see the significance of this excursion to a warm, secluded spot filled with flowers, much to her dismay.

Unfortunately for Erestor, he had gone into the greenhouse before them, checking for cracks in the glass that the weight of the snow on the roof might have produced. He was currently hidden from sight by a large bush and was unsure whether to make a speedy escape, thereby possibly ruining Elrond's last chance at conjugal happiness, or remaining where he was and hoping that he would neither be detected, nor learn more about his friend's love life than he had ever wanted to.

Elrond stood in a bed of valerian and peppermint, his mouth agape. Then he began to stammer, which only made things worse.

 _If this is the outcome, I hope never to fall in love_ , Erestor thought glumly.

"I... what?"

"You heard me." Celebrían said. She had her mother's confidence. "Do you, or do you not like me?"

Erestor idly wondered what Elrond thought of women in general, but apparently, he had never expected one to be so blunt with him.

"I do not know what to say."

"That is quite obvious, yes." Celebrían sighed. "Let me spell it out for you: I do like you. In fact, I may have come to love you since we last met. But I wish you would not make it so difficult for me. It is as if you were afraid of me."

Erestor held his breath, waiting for Elrond's reply. _Please_ , he silently urged his friend, _do yourself and us all a favor and declare yourself to her now. It would be a shame to see you mooning over her for the rest of your life._

His prayers were hear, if not by Elrond himself, then by the Valar.

"I _was_ afraid," Elrond said slowly, "I thought you might not return my feelings. But I am afraid no longer."

And then, judging by the ensuing silence, they continued their conversation on a non-verbal level of mutual understanding. High time for Erestor to get away. He tried to be inconspicuous - really, he did - but both the lady and his friend had very good hearing and the rustling in the bushes did not escape their notice.

Erestor emerged to find them both looking at him, Elrond's arm still around Celebrían's slender waist.

"Erestor," Elrond said astonished, "whatever are you doing in here?"

"Checking the glass panes for cracks," Erestor said miserably.

"Now?" Elrond asked, his brows shooting up. _This is the worst possible timing_ , the look on his face implied.

"In my defense," Erestor said, "I was here before you stepped inside."

Celebrían laughed. "Well it seems that it is hard to keep a secret in Imladris."

"I am truly sorry, my lady," Erestor apologized.

"Oh, never mind," she laughed it away. "It was not much of a secret anyway, was it? The next time, we will be sure to put a sign on the door or let the itinerary of our walk be known to you."

"Thank you," Erestor said, now truly mortified, and fled the room.

"Where were we...?" He heard Celebrían say, just as he turned the corner.

Erestor ran for most of the way back to the safe haven of his study, and since fate seemed to hate him that day, he probably should not have been surprised when he ran into Glorfindel. Literally. Glorfindel was wearing his armor, it therefore was a rather painful encounter, too.

"Erestor!" Glorfindel said, helping him up. "What is the matter with you?"

"I think I broke my nose," Erestor sniffed.

"Here, let me check." Glorfindel raised his chin with one hand, took a long look at his face and carefully touched his nose with cool fingers. "No, not broken," he proclaimed.

"Well, it feels like it."

"That is what you get for running along the hallway as if you had a Balrog chasing after you," Glorfindel said. "Why the unseemly haste?"

"I just walked in on Elrond and Celebrían."

Glorfindel's eyes widened. Then he began to chuckle. "Truly?"

"Well, in fact, they walked into the greenhouse while I was checking for cracks in the glass panes. It was an unfortunate coincidence."

Glorfindel was laughing out loud now, the very picture of merriment. "Ah, I would have loved to see the look on Elrond's face when he caught you hiding in the bushes!"

"Glorfindel! I was _not_ hiding in the bushes."

But it was no use. The story stuck to him, the cause of much teasing and amusement over the years.

 

* * *

 

 

The wedding date was set for mid-spring and Glorfindel watched in bemusement as both Erestor and Elrond turned into whirlwinds of frenzied activity, preparing for the big event and the subsequent new regime.

"So, Elrond is getting married, and that is that," Glorfindel said to Erestor as he watched him and his assistants write enormous stacks of wedding invitations, "but I do not understand what should be so different afterwards."

Erestor looked at him over the stack of cards piled up in front of him. "There will be a lady of the house, from now on," he explained with obviously forced patience.

"And?" Glorfindel asked. "There are many admirable females living in this household. Two of them are sitting next to you, as it happens."

Erestor's two assistants blushed and giggled. They were rather young, and Glorfindel was rather handsome, after all.

Erestor rolled his eyes. Glorfindel was constantly flirting with the female population of Imladris, but he had never grown quite accustomed to it, and it bothered him. He could not have named the reason for his discomfort, especially since Glorfindel never went so much as a hairsbreadth beyond casual compliments and smiles - to the great dismay of many a maiden in the Valley.

It simply annoyed him, like so many other things about Glorfindel.

"Lady Celebrían will not simply move in," Erestor explained, "she will head the household, together with Elrond, and surely there will be many changes in protocol and procedures."

"Protocol?" Glorfindel asked. "We actually have a household protocol? I thought that was just for kings and their ilk."

"Glorfindel, you are making me cross," Erestor said. "Get out of my study and go find something more productive to do." He finished the invitation to one of the lords at the Lindon court with an unnecessary flourish.

"Do you think they may have children soon?" Glorfindel asked, out of the blue.

Erestor frowned at him. "That is not a topic fit for public discussion."

"Huh? What could possibly be indecent about discussing whether or not they will have children? I like children. As a matter of fact, you do, too. They are lots of fun."

"Vilra," Erestor said to the maiden seated at his left side, "hand me that ink jar, will you?"

Dutifully, the girl complied.

"Or maybe," Glorfindel continued unperturbed, "it was the creation of said children that you were referring to. Yes, that would indeed be a topic unfit for public discussion. But I am not the one hiding in the bushes, Erestor."

The conversation ended abruptly with Erestor throwing the ink jar at Glorfindel. It hit his shoulder and splattered black ink all over the front of his tunic.

Erestor did have very good aim, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

Spring arrived, and with it a large host of wedding guests from Lothlorien, accompanying the bride. Both the guests and the inhabitants of Imladris were in high spirits, ready to celebrate the union with as much laughter, songs and merriment as they could come up with.

Elrond was slowly resigning himself to the fact that he would never have a moment alone with his intended.  Either, he was drawn aside by Galadriel, Celeborn, Mithrandir or any of the two dozen other guests of great importance to discuss matters of political significance, or Erestor was tugging at his shirtsleeve with lists and seating arrangements to look over, or else it was Galreäd, wanting to talk about the cakes and pastries, or Firavel, about songs to be played, or Leliand, about flower arrangements.

When finally, he was sharing a much-needed moment of rest and companionable solitude with Celebrían in his arms, looking at the stars from the vantage point of his balcony, Glorfindel burst into the room without announcement, shouting as if the forces of darkness were about to descend on Imladris.             

Which was rather alarming, because Glorfindel was by no means prone to hysterics. For a moment, Elrond was ready to believe that the forces of darkness _were_ indeed preparing to invade his wedding.

"Elrond, Elrond, you must come now! Hurry!" Glorfindel cried.

"Glorfindel," Elrond said, releasing Celebrían from his arms with a mournful sigh, "what is it?"

"Elrond, please! Come with me, quick."

"I will, if you tell me what has happened to warrant such a commotion at this hour. You could have knocked, you know."

"It is Erestor. He fell from a tree and is hurt."

Elrond blinked, trying to make sense of that statement. It did not quite fit the image he had of his friend and adviser. "And what, pray tell me, was Erestor doing in a tree?"

"Fixing a problem with the lampions."

Elrond heaved another sigh. Of course. Curse Erestor and his attention to details.

"Elrond!" Glorfindel urged.

"Yes, coming." He turned to Celebrían. "I am sorry, my dear."

She shook her head. "No, you need to look after him, if he is hurt."  Celebrían was fond of Erestor and her concern showed in her expression.

Elrond nodded absentmindedly, still wondering what had caused his graceful advisor to fall from a tree, and followed Glorfindel, who rushed along the hallways, more running than walking.

They found Erestor in the gardens, underneath large cherry tree. It was in full bloom, and the ground around it was white with petals. They also clung to Erestor's clothing and hair. Halen was at his side, looking shaken. He had probably never seen his superior hurt or sick.

Glorfindel dropped down at Erestor's other side, urging Elrond to follow him. To his surprise, Erestor was conscious, if rather dazed.

"Erestor, look at me," Elrond said. "What happened?"

"I fell..."

"Glorfindel told me. I would like to move you into the house, but first I need to know if there are any injuries to your spine or neck. Do you feel your arms and legs?"

"Yes."

"Move them a little, if you please. But carefully."

Erestor moved his legs and left arm to Elrond's satisfaction, but winced as he tried to lift the right arm.

"It is probably broken," Elrond said, running his fingers along the arm. "Ah yes. Well, that I can heal. Does your head hurt?"

"Yes... at the back." Elrond ran his fingers through Erestor's hair. The wound was shallow, but bleeding substantially. When he withdrew his fingers, they were dark with blood. Halen gasped and Glorfindel gave a strangled sound that made Elrond glare at him.

"Compose yourself," he admonished, "one would think you had never seen injuries on the battlefield."

"I feel strange," Erestor said.

"That is not unexpected," Elrond replied, still checking for further injury. "I believe it is safe to move you into the house. You will be more comfortable there. Halen, fetch a stretcher."

But before Halen could even take two steps, Glorfindel had scooped Erestor up in his arms and was carrying him towards the house, taking great care not to jostle him too much. Halen and Elrond exchanged a puzzled look and proceeded to follow him.

They lay Erestor down on a bed, and Elrond sent Halen away to fetch some herbs and to get him out of his hair. Glorfindel, however, stubbornly refused to move. Elrond therefore chose to ignore him and proceeded with his work.

When he was done, Erestor was asleep, his broken arm wrapped tightly and in a sling, his cuts and bruises and the laceration on his head treated and clean. Elrond straightened himself and looked at Glorfindel, seated at the other side of the bed.

"He has a broken arm, a few bruises and a mild concussion. From the way you were reacting, I expected him to be dying," he said with a note of disapproval in his voice.

"You are the healer," Glorfindel said.

"You overreacted," Elrond stated. "What has gotten into you all of a sudden?"

"He lay there on the grass, as if he were dead," Glorfindel said softly, "and I could not bear the sight."

"You feel responsible for him," Elrond realized.

Glorfindel looked up. "Ecthelion was my dearest friend. I could not live with the thought that I had let his beloved little brother die."

"Well, you may rest assured in the knowledge that he will not die and make a speedy recovery. Go to bed now, Glorfindel, and let him sleep in peace. You can check on him in the morning."

And shaking his head, he returned to his rooms. To his great disappointment, he found that Celebrían had already left for her own.

 

* * *

 

 

Erestor was not at all happy to be in the healing ward, and left as soon as Elrond would permit him, claiming that there was too much work to do for him to rest idle. Both Elrond and Glorfindel tried to argue with him, but failed to convince him.

Even with his health not fully restored, Erestor worked tirelessly, adding the finishing touches to the wedding preparations and directing the entire household with one arm and even less patience than usual until they all agreed that they would be glad when the wedding was finally over.

Glorfindel watched him warily. He saw the exhaustion in Erestor's movements, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way he clutched his injured arm when it hurt. But it was no use talking to him, for Erestor would not listen.

Until one night, Glorfindel and Elrond came upon him in one of the garden pavilions, sound asleep next to a stack of cushions he had meant to distribute. Glorfindel looked at him, at his beautiful face, relaxed and unguarded in sleep, and his heart ached. He was only dimly aware of Elrond by his side, and knelt next to the sleeper, spreading his midnight blue coat over him.

He watched the even in and out of Erestor's breathing and his hand lingered on the silky black hair, brushing aside a streak that had fallen over his pale face.

"Glorfindel," Elrond said softly, his voice astonished at what he had just come to realize, “I do believe you are in love with my chief counselor."

Glorfindel, who had never given that possibility a thought until then, started and withdrew his hand. He got up brusquely.

_Love him...?_

Ecthelion was on his mind, always Ecthelion, his face stern just then. _My little brother, Glorfindel...?  
Well, you died and left us both, _Glorfindel thought bitterly.

"Well?" Elrond asked him, drawing him away from the sleeper so as not to wake him.

Glorfindel wanted to argue that the assumption was ridiculous, but found that he lacked the strength or conviction to do so. Erestor's sleeping face was still on his mind, frozen in eternal youth, pale and immaculate. - And unlike Ecthelion's. In fact, he looked more like Ersinoë; Ecthelion's younger sister, just then.

 _What a nice irony,_ Glorfindel thought, _you always wanted me to love her. My promised bride, my moon-pale maiden..._

"Does he know?" Elrond asked.

Glorfindel shook his head. _A moment ago, I did not know of it myself. If you had asked me where my heart was, I would have answered you it that rested with the dead. Maybe not, though..._

Elrond sighed. "And you are not planning to tell him."

"How could I? He barely looks at me as a friend," Glorfindel said, trying to sound reasonable but feeling miserable inside. "We argue more often than not. And he keeps throwing things at me."

Elrond remembered the day he had passed an ink-stained Glorfindel in the hallway and nodded sagely. "Yes, maybe you are wise not to tell him. It would most likely upset him. Come along now."

Glorfindel shook his head. "I am staying."

"Glorfindel," Elrond admonished, "do not torment yourself. If your love is unrequited, there is no use feeding the fire. You will only cause yourself pain."

_"I bid you never speak of it again. Let these words be the only ones lost between us, and let us keep them to ourselves... if you have those feelings, Glorfindel, they honor me, but they also make me fear for you... I would not see you in pain. I bid you hide your heart away, lest it be hurt. It must seem for all the world that you love my sister..."  
"I promised I would love her for your sake. I can do no more than that. You and I both know that to pretend anything else would be a lie..."_

"Maybe I like a little pain now and then," Glorfindel said firmly, "to remind me of the fact that I am alive."

And he adamantly refused to leave, until Elrond grew tired of arguing with him and walked away, muttering something about troublesome fools whose stubbornness rivaled that of a whole people of dwarves.

Glorfindel tuned him out and settle down on one of the cushions a few feet away from Erestor, watching over his sleep. He sat perfectly still, but his mind was not at peace.

He saw Erestor, lying on a bed of cherry blossoms as if dead, his face as pale as the petals. He felt his heart constrict painfully at the sight, squeezed by a great and terrible hand. Petals were still drifting down from the cherry tree, covering Erestor's pale skin, and his hair, and the dark tunic he wore.

His perspective shifting, he saw Elrond's hands covered in blood, in Erestor's blood, and suddenly he was back on the battlefield, surrounded by death and despair and horrors to great to be named. The smell rose to his nostrils, sharp and unmistakable, and the images of maimed corpses and bloody faces were etched upon his retina, burning themselves into him.

As more and more of his memories returned to him, it grew harder to keep the images of terror and destruction at bay. They had begun to invade his dreams, and even during his waking hours, he would sometimes see or hear something that would trigger the memories and drown him in them.

Elrond, of course, was right. He _had_ indeed overreacted to seeing Erestor hurt. Even though he had never been a healer, Glorfindel had a pretty good understanding of how much damage a body could take and still recover, and he was not usually scared by a little blood. But in the peace and tranquility of Imladris, maybe he had grown unaccustomed to injuries that went beyond superficial cuts and bruises inflicted on the training grounds. Maybe he had been lulled in and led to believe that nothing bad would ever happen again.

A dangerous thought.

He vowed to be more vigilant in the future, to remind himself often of the fact that the world was a dangerous place and that darkness could descend at any time. They had not been expecting the Fall of Gondolin, either, and yet it had come to pass.

Gondolin... he looked down at Erestor, sleeping beneath his coat. Here was his only link with his long-lost home. He assumed that there were other survivors still, some staying at the Havens with Cirdan, some perhaps in Lothlorien at the court of the Lady Galadriel. Strangely though, he had no true desire to meet with them. He could have asked Erestor, who was sure to know more about the other survivors, their whereabouts and their origin, but he did not dare to do so for fear of upsetting him. While to him, Erestor's presence was a comfort, linked to the only good memories he had of Gondolin - those of home, and love and friendship and the antics of a small, too serious child - Erestor himself seemed to feel just the opposite. Even now, he was clearly not comfortable in Glorfindel's presence. It was obvious to anyone but a casual observer, although he took pains to hide it for the sake of politeness and of Elrond.

His wariness and obvious discomfort hurt Glorfindel more than he cared to admit. It seemed a bitter irony that here was a fellow Gondolinian, one that his best friend had chosen to call brother, and that yet he should harbor no other feelings than bitterness, anger and disappointment for him. Glorfindel had hoped to call Erestor his friend after they had grown better acquainted. But, remembering Elrond's words, maybe he had been deceiving himself on that account...?

_"Glorfindel, I do believe you are in love with my chief counselor."_

His heart filled with doubts, Glorfindel searched for arguments to disprove Elrond's assumption. It seemed foolish that he should love one who clearly wished for nothing better than to see him gone from Imladris. Yes, he had noticed Erestor's beauty, to miss it would have been as to miss the sun on a cloudless summer day. He had noticed his wit and sharp intellect, his clever counsel and great knowledge spanning a broad range of subjects. There was clearly much to admire in Erestor, but to love him...? Love was for Elrond and Celebrían, who were soon to be married. Glorfindel wished them all the joy in the world, and a host of lovely children, and good health and spirits until the end of their days. It seemed preposterous to presume that he himself could share the same sentiments with anyone, when the only reason he had been sent back was his mission to counsel and protect the heirs of Eärendil (Elrond and said lovely children, as it was).

And was not Erestor still linked inseparably with the little boy he had known, dark-eyed and curious, nibbling on honey-cakes? How could he love the adult if he still saw the child?

_Elrond must be mistaken. It could be no more than a harmless infatuation... I might love the idea of being in love, because it would somehow make me feel special. I might love the traces of Ecthelion I see in him... there is no denying that I loved Ecthelion, and Erestor so reminds me of him at times, even though they are very different..._

He thoroughly examined his feelings for Erestor. He found guilt, a guilt that he would never be quite free of. Erestor had said it himself, he should have been there sooner. He found a great longing to protect and to care for, probably linked to the images of Ecthelion's little brother, still on his mind every time he looked at Erestor. He found a desire for friendship, and sharp disappointment at its rejection. A fear of losing Erestor, and with him the only thing connecting him with Gondolin and Ecthelion, with his old self. The wish to be at peace and on good terms with the other members of Elrond's household, because he lived here now, Elrond was his liege lord, and he genuinely liked him.

None of that suggested true love. True love was supposed to be selfless, and Glorfindel found many selfish considerations in his feelings towards Erestor.

Reassured, he took a deep breath and vowed to pursue his intended friendship with Erestor with greater zeal. Friendship was his best guard against silly, insincere infatuation and immature desires. Besides, it would do Erestor good to have a friend other than Elrond and Galreäd. Everybody else lived either in awe or in fear of him, if not both. And it would certainly make Elrond glad to see the two of them get along better.

With that settled, Glorfindel spent the rest of the night watching over Erestor's sleep and thinking that it would be so much nicer if they could share some light conversation over a game of chess rather than arguments that involved the throwing of ink jars. And if he was lying to himself, no one but the Valar (and possibly Elrond, but he was distracted by thoughts of Celebrían) would ever know...

 

* * *

 

 

Erestor awoke to the first light of dawn and a bird's song. The morning air was cool and fresh and carried the smell of lilac and early roses from the garden. He looked up to see the slanted wooden ceiling of a pavilion above and began to wonder. Where exactly had he gone to sleep last night?

Covering him was the midnight-blue fabric of a coat. It was very soft, a finely woven piece of clothing, and it seemed oddly familiar, as if he had seen someone wearing it before.

He sat up, and instinctively, his fingers went to his hair, looking for tangles in the soft black strands.

"Good morning," a cheerful voice said, and Erestor started. He found Glorfindel sitting cross-legged on a pillow a few feet away, looking as happy and self-assured as if he belonged there. Erestor was unsure whether to be annoyed or simply surprised. Maybe a bit of both would do.

"What happened?" He asked, stifling a yawn.

Glorfindel smiled benevolently. "Elrond and I found you here, asleep, when we were walking in the gardens last night. You seemed very tired, so we thought it best to let you rest for a little while."

Erestor stared at him, disbelievingly. Embarrassment rose within him and threatened to overcome him. Oh, he could imagine that scene very well! How ridiculous he must have seemed.

"It is your cloak," he realized.

Glorfindel nodded. "Yes; there was no blanket to be found, and the nights are still chill."

It seemed so reasonable the way he said it, and yet Erestor would have gladly dissolved into smoke or thin air on the spot.

"Here," he handed the cloak back to Glorfindel, who took it and folded it carefully.

"You must think me quite silly!" Erestor blurted out.

Glorfindel looked up as if startled, his blue eyes clear of any ill intentions. "Why?" He asked. "We all grow tired now and again, and you have been working harder than any of us these past few weeks. Also, you have not yet fully recovered from your fall... and you would not have fallen in the first place, had you not worked until you were too exhausted to walk straight, never mind climb a tree." There was a hint of disapproval in his voice.

Erestor hung his head. Glorfindel had once again succeeded in making him feel like the clumsy child he had been so long ago. The age difference between them should not have mattered anymore, not after so many years, many of which Glorfindel had actually spent - well, dead, as it was. And yet there it was again - that uncanny ability to put Lord Elrond's chief counselor back in place and to show him that no matter how high a rank he had attained in the meantime, he was still only a younger and inferior member of the House of the Fountain, being addressed by the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower.

"Cheer up!" Glorfindel said, blissfully oblivious to Erestor's embarrassment - empathy was not exactly his best quality.  "It is a lovely day, and there is still plenty of work to do, which should make you happy, since you are an obsessive busybody and quite pedantic in your attention to detail."

"I shall take that as a compliment," Erestor said drily.

"It was not intended that way, but sure, if it suits you..." Glorfindel got up in one fluid movement and shook out his robes. They were a pale, grayish green and just about as lovely as anything else about him. Erestor thought it unfair that Glorfindel should look so handsome and complacent when he himself felt about a million years old and tired, and probably had the most horrible tangles in his hair and wrinkles in his clothing.

Glorfindel seemed to be thinking among the same lines - though perhaps without any resentment.  "A visit to your rooms for a bath and some fresh clothing may be in order before I deliver you to Elrond," he said. "Otherwise, you might spend a considerable part of the next few days in said rooms, being fussed over and fed nasty-tasting healing potions. You have managed to fool Elrond so far, but only because he is distracted at the moment."

Erestor sighed. He hated to admit it, but Glorfindel was right. However - "You do _not_ need to accompany me there."

Glorfindel clicked his tongue depreciatively. "My, how charming you are this fine morning, Erestor! I will go with you whether you like it or not. I have a duty to Elrond; and right now, he is best served by not having his chief counselor - and the mastermind behind this entire wedding - drop dead during the feast."

"Have I ever mentioned how much of a nuisance you are?" Erestor growled, groggily getting up.

"Oh, frequently," Glorfindel assured him. "Usually as a preliminary to slamming a door in my face or throwing something at me."

"Good." Erestor said with feeling.

Glorfindel laughed and followed him as he made his way through the gardens and towards his rooms.

The striped cat welcomed him with an expression of disapproval, mewling.

"Oh, go catch a mouse," Erestor told it unkindly. "Or better yet, eat Glorfindel. He is a pest, and as I recall, it is a cat's duty to keep the house clean of those."

The cat gave Glorfindel a long, thoughtful look from yellow eyes, but apparently decided that he was rather too big a prey and left through the open door.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have the charm of an angered dragon?" Glorfindel asked, echoing Erestor's earlier words.

"I am not trying to charm you, Glorfindel," Erestor said, taking off his overcoat and marching into the adjacent room.

"I can tell," Glorfindel called after him.

With no time for a real bath - not with Glorfindel pacing his rooms and Elrond probably waiting for him - Erestor quickly washed his body and hair with cold water, put on some clean clothing and went back to the other room, comb still in hand.

"Blue suits you better," Glorfindel said, looking up. He sat in the window seat, leafing through one of Erestor's books. It was a heavy tome written in Quenya.

"You read. I am shocked," Erestor commented acidly, trying to run the comb through his tangled hair.

"Occasionally," Glorfindel said. "Can I borrow this?"

Erestor shrugged. "If you must. You know, Elrond does keep a library."

"The librarian hates me. She says I make too much noise whenever I am in the library."

"And here I thought I was the only one immune to your smiles. I really must spend more time with Nuval, I did not realize we had so much in common."

"She is quite lovely," Glorfindel said, watching him wrestle with his hair. "Maybe you _should_ spend some more time with her. Elrond would be delighted. He has been despairing of your lack of companion. He seems to think that you are in that way incomplete, and unhappy because of it _._ "

Erestor scowled. "That is not what I meant."

"No?"

"No!"

Was it his imagination, or did Glorfindel look almost... relieved? Probably he had already been imagining an alliance against himself, formed by Erestor and Nuval. Ha!

"See, that only confirms my suspicions," Glorfindel said, getting up and carefully placing the book on a low table. "You have no interest in the fairer sex."

"I have no interest in anyone, no matter what their gender or persuasion" Erestor snapped.

"That is quite sad." Glorfindel stepped next to him. "Please sit down and let me help you. This is just too painful to watch."

To his own surprise, Erestor handed him the comb and sat down in one of the chairs. Glorfindel moved behind him and carefully swept his still damp hair back. There was a gentleness in his touch that Erestor had not expected, and he expertly removed the tangles and knots, moving with alacrity and skill. It was almost pleasant to lean back and let him do his work.

"I used to do this for my mother," Glorfindel offered after a moment of silence. "Her hair was even longer than yours, but golden like mine. She took great pride in it."

"I never met her," Erestor said, "nor your father."

"They both passed away before you were even born, so that is not at all surprising." It was obviously a touchy subject.

Erestor wondered if Glorfindel knew that he was well aware of the story behind said 'passing'. The manner in which the Lord and the Lady of the House of the Golden Flower had died had been common knowledge in Gondolin, even though it was not usually mentioned out of respect and compassion for their son. But Ecthelion had told his little brother, probably considering the story gruesome enough to serve as an educative example.

For a moment he considered asking Glorfindel about it, but he quickly dismissed the thought. It would have been cruel, and no matter how much Glorfindel annoyed him at times, he did not deserve that. Especially not while he was actually trying to be of help.

"You  have Vanyar blood, do you not?" He asked instead. "Passed down from your mother's side of the family?"

"However did you guess that?" Glorfindel asked and Erestor could almost hear him grin.

He sighed, rolling his eyes. "A blind man could tell you, and without resorting to magic. It is in your name, even.  Glorfindel, golden-haired. I assume your parents wanted to make sure everyone got the message."

"My mother was proud. Amid a sea of dark-haired Noldor children, I was the only blonde."

"Of course. And here I am wondering why you are so incredibly overconfident, when it makes perfect sense, really: you parents' only child, the only blond Vanya in a city full of dark-haired Noldor, heir of one of the great houses, Balrog-slayer and reborn by the grace of the Valar. It is a real wonder that you are not entirely insufferable."

Glorfindel chuckled and finished braiding Erestor's hair, tying the end of the braid with a black and silver cord. "Erestor?"

"Mhm?"

"I think you like me."

"What? Whatever gave you that idea?"

"You just admitted that I am not _entirely_ insufferable."

Erestor did not grace him with an answer. He knew he could only lose that argument.

 

* * *

 

 

The wedding of Lord Elrond of Imladris and Lady Celebrían of Lorien was celebrated with a four-day feast, at the end of which everyone agreed that not only they made a wonderful couple, but also that the elves of Imladris were good company and among the most hospitable people in Middle Earth. Food, lodgings, decorations, music, merriment - everything was perfect. Hardly anyone noticed that this perfection came with a price - it took a huge toll on Lord Elrond's chief counselor, who coordinated everything.

By the end of the second day, Erestor was close to a nervous breakdown. By the end of the third, he was dead on his feet. On the night of the fourth, he fell asleep in his bed without knowing how he had got there and slept for two straight days.

If it had not been for Glorfindel, who - true to his word - attempted to keep the chief counselor from dropping dead at Elrond's feet, Erestor would probably not have survived the joyous event. He was by no means as delicate as he looked, but dealing with four-hundred guests of different race and origin, many of whom were not on the best of terms with each other, and simultaneously directing a host of servants, cooks, musicians, decorators, stablehands, gardeners and poets, while still suffering from the aftereffects of his fall, was too much, even for him.

As if trying to atone for past sins, however, Glorfindel appeared miraculously at his side whenever he felt like screaming at the members of the Greenwood delegation for being anti-social xenophobes, locking himself in the pantry for fear that the dwarves would eat every last breadcrumb to be found in the realm, or dunking a drunk Elrond into one of the fountains before he could embarrass himself - and others! - in front of his new in-laws.

Glorfindel, never losing his smile, dealt with it all. He engaged King Thranduil and his obnoxious kinsfolk in polite, non-threatening conversation, giving Erestor and everyone else room to breathe and to quickly sidestep the delegation. He convinced the dwarves that an overdose of elvish food was unlikely to contribute to their continued health and wellbeing and politely suggested they turn to the wine, mead and ale instead, a suggestion they accepted most enthusiastically. He grabbed Elrond's arm at just the right moment, whispering into his ear that Celebrían had something important to communicate and steering him away from the crowd towards a quieter part of the gardens, where one of the junior healers was waiting to administer one of Elrond's own potions that brought him eight hours of untroubled, sobering sleep.

At the end of the second day, he set a plate of Galreäd's pastries in front of Erestor, commanding him to eat. Erestor looked up at him from dull eyes. "I am not hungry."

Glorfindel's blue eyes narrowed. "Do you want me to force you?" he asked quietly and with just a hint of a threat in his voice. "Make no mistake, I will do it if I have to. At swordpoint, that is."

Erestor then decided that the pastries did not look so bad after all.

On the third day, Glorfindel caught Erestor, just as he was beginning to stumble. "This will not do," he said angrily. "You are exhausted and in pain - denying it is pointless, I have seen you clutch your arm. Elrond is asleep and therefore unable to help you, so I suppose it falls to me." He handed Erestor a goblet of miruvor.

"You know I prefer to abstain from alcohol," Erestor protested weakly.

"Do I?" Glorfindel asked. "In that case, let us both temporarily forget that. Drink."

Erestor did and had to admit that it helped a bit.

"And now off to your rooms," Glorfindel said. "I am sure the cat misses you."

On the night of the fourth day, it was Glorfindel, who carried Erestor back to his rooms after he had passed out at the table. It was Glorfindel, who gently lay him on his bed and pulled a blanket over him. Glorfindel, who placed a soft kiss on his front, but Erestor was already fast asleep by then and never knew about that.

 _A simple infatuation, Glorfindel?_ Ecthelion's voice asked at the back of his conscious mind. _Oh, you are lying to yourself, are you not? An infatuation it may be, but there is nothing simple about it..._

 _No,_ Glorfindel agreed quietly, looking down at Erestor, untypically peaceful in his slumber, _no there is not. Valar...! What is it that draws me so to the members of this house? The eldest I loved more than my own life, the second I was promised to, and now I am losing what is left of my heart to the youngest._

In the two days following the feast, Glorfindel placed armed guards at the door to Erestor's suite to prevent the other members of the household from entering. Elrond, who came to check on his friend and counselor, raised his brows at the two young warriors.

"Is that not a bit extreme?" He asked his golden-haired commander in chief.

Glorfindel returned his gaze, unblinking. "No," he responded. "And let it be known that the household will have to run itself for a few days. Anyone wishing to intrude upon Erestor's rest will have to go through me first, and I do not recommend that." _And that goes for you, too, his look implied._

Elrond sighed. "Well, it seems to me that Erestor has found himself a champion. Do tell him, he will be _thrilled._ "

"And probably throw something sharp and pointed at me, I know. Alas, I doubt that even Luthien could stir Erestor's interest, never mind reach his heart. I will therefore endeavor not to take it as a slight against my person."

"Will you at least let me step inside and see if he is well?" Elrond asked.

Glorfindel inclined his head and stepped out of the way, but he followed Elrond inside.

 

* * *

 

 

After two days and nights, Erestor awoke, feeling well rested and refreshed. Even the pain in his right arm was gone and he took that for a good sign. His faithful striped cat stretched next to him as he sat up and he petted its head, enjoying the softness of the fur at his fingertips.

It was mid-morning and sunlight bathed the room. Someone - likely Elrond - had placed a carafe of spring water and a glass on the table near his bed. His mouth felt dry, so he poured himself a glass and enjoyed the cool freshness of the water.

He took his time getting cleaned, groomed and dressed, judging that if no one had bothered to wake him up until then, everything had to be in good order. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he opened the door - and was met by two guards in the light armor Imladris's defenders preferred to wear around the house, when they were not out patrolling the borders. Erestor knew both of them. They were a pair of brothers, Tharand and Felas. They had Noldor blood on their father's side and it showed in both of them, they were tall, dark-haired and grey-eyed.

"Good morning," he greeted them. "Is there any particular reason why you are guarding my doorstep?"

"Good morning, my lord," Felas said, respectfully inclining his head and his brother followed suit. "We were under orders to see to it that no one disturbed your sleep."

Erestor took a moment to consider this statement. The gesture was certainly nice, if a bit overbearing. Elrond's way of thanking him for his efforts regarding the wedding, he assumed. "Well, I am awake now. I thank you for your time and effort and I shall be sure to thank Lord Elrond as well, for his consideration."

Felas and Tharand bowed. "My lord."

"Actually," Tharand added, "those were Lord Glorfindel's orders."

"Glorfindel?" Erestor asked, taken aback. That Elrond would try to ensure he got the rest he needed was plausible. Glorfindel though... what motive could Glorfindel have for posting guards at his door? "Is he about?"

"No, my lord," Felas replied. "Lord Elrond sent him and a company of warriors to check on our borders. There was a message from the Greenwood delegation early this morning, warning Lord Elrond that they spied some orcs on their way out. Lord Glorfindel and his company rode out a few hours ago."

Thoughtfully, Erestor thanked them again and dismissed them. Glorfindel was gone, then, to do what he seemed to do best, fight and protect. And he had - quite unnecessarily - left two of his warriors behind to guard Erestor's sleep.

"What am I supposed to make of that?" Erestor asked the cat, but it gave no answer, so he went to find Elrond instead.

He came upon the Lord of Imladris in his library, searching for some particular text with the help of the librarian, Nuval.

"Ah, Erestor," Elrond said when he saw his chief counselor, "I see you are back from the dead."

"You seem to mistake me for Glorfindel, my lord," Erestor said drily.

Elrond smiled. "No, for it is easy to tell you apart. One is as dark and serious as the other is fair and cheerful."

"What is the meaning of Glorfindel posting guards at my door?" Erestor asked, ignoring the comparison.

"Why, I should say he cares for you and wanted you to have the rest you needed," Elrond said innocently. "Quite unexpectedly thoughtful of him."

"Elrond," Erestor said, "what exactly are you not telling me?"

"Do not trouble yourself, Erestor. I am sure it was meant as a friendly, not a threatening gesture. Glorfindel saw that you had overexerted yourself - to my great shame, I must admit that I did not - and decided to help as best he could. It was he who saw you safely to your rooms after you had fallen asleep at the table at the end of the evening. I am truly sorry, my friend, I should have realized in time that you were not back to your full strength and were as always driving yourself too hard."

Erestor placed a hand on his arm and shook his head. "No need to apologize. It was your wedding, after all. And I had to make sure everything was perfect."

"Yes, I know," Elrond said with another smile, " you always do. And I cannot thank you enough."

"So," Erestor said slowly, "Glorfindel had to carry me to my rooms. Great. I will never hear the end of it."

Elrond laughed. "He might tease you about it."

"Oh, he will." Erestor sighed. "You know, I liked his jokes when I was a child. They seem a lot less funny to me now that I am an adult and they are at my expense, though."

Elrond put down his book and took Erestor's arm. "Walk with me," he said, leading him away towards the courtyard. Erestor fell into step beside him. "You never told me you knew Glorfindel as a child," Elrond remarked.

"Does it matter?" Erestor asked. "He told you, did he not?"

"He did," Elrond admitted. "I gathered from his account that he was a friend of the family."

"No, he was a friend of Ecthelion," Erestor corrected him. "Though I suppose he was also a favorite with the Ladies Elaraël and Ersinoё, Ecthelion's mother and sister. I have yet to meet a woman who could resist his charm."

"And you?" Elrond asked, looking at him sideways.

"I was very young then. They were the heroes of my childhood, Ecthelion and Glorfindel. I wished to grow up and be like them, and for Ecthelion to let me hold his sword and Glorfindel to let me ride his white horse."

"I can hardly imagine you as a child," Elrond said. "It always seemed that you were born wise and serious."

Erestor could not hide a smile at that. "I _was_ a serious child. With a fondness for honey cakes."

They laughed together at that.

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel was gone for many days pursuing the orcs, but missed by neither Elrond nor Erestor, as they both had other things on their mind. After the feast, things had calmed down to almost their normal rhythm of quiet industry and it was time for Celebrían to get settled into her new home. She had brought from Lorien several members of her own household - guards, a scholar, various servants and two maids of honor. It was up to Erestor to find accommodations for those new members of the household and to introduce them to the other inhabitants. He sent the guards to Glorfindel's lieutenant, judging that warriors usually got along well with each other, if they were not on opposite sides of a battle. He got the scholar settled in an office and in the library and placed her in Nuval's care. The maids and servants were easily settled into the household and mentored by Halen and Firavel, where seen necessary.

The new lady of Imladris was as wise as she was fair to look upon, therefore she made a point of getting on Erestor's good side and staying there. She found it surprisingly easy, once she discovered that the seneschal was incapable of being harsh with anyone he considered weaker than himself and in need of assistance. Erestor only fought with his equals, or those who acted as if the considered themselves his superiors. He did, however, have a weak spot for children, animals, people who addressed him shyly and with due respect -  and large-eyed, soft-spoken young ladies, as it turned out. Celebrían quickly learned to use that to her advantage and they got along well in no time.

It also worked in her favor that she was by no means intent on changing protocol or procedures. She had never run a household and no desire of doing so in the future, and why should she, when there was a competent administrator and a functioning system already in place? Consequently, Erestor found it very easy to get along with her.

"I must confess, I am a bit surprised," Elrond told her one afternoon, when they were walking the gardens. "I thought there might be more of a struggle between you and him. Erestor has ruled supreme for many years, and he takes a certain pride in his efficiency and skills. It is lucky for me that he has no political ambition whatsoever and is fiercely loyal, otherwise I might have had a coup on my hands years ago."

Celebrían smiled at that. "He would never do such a thing to you. He loves you dearly and would consider even an ill thought towards you treason."

"You have grown quite fond of him, have you not?" He asked, pleased with this observation.

"Yes, I have," she replied. "I admire his dedication and his assiduousness. He is a witty and pleasant companion when he chooses to, and I believe he gives you good counsel. I know that others fear his temper, but towards me, he has never been anything but kind, respectful and gentle."

"I am glad to hear it," Elrond said. "And let me add that the feeling is mutual. Erestor has complimented me on my choice in a bride on more than one occasion and he has the highest regard for you. I was very relieved to hear it, considering that he did not react nearly as favorably to the other new member of our household."

"Oh?" Celebrían asked.

"Glorfindel," Elrond elaborated. "I did not know it at the time, but those two have a history, and there are many memories lost between them that both might have been glad to let rest unstirred."

"They seem to be very close, however," Celebrían said. She had actually thought that those two might be lovers, judging from what she had observed during the feast, but Firavel had cured her of that misconception, laughing loudly as she suggested it. "What is so odd about that?" Celebrían had asked the minstrel, who, still grinning, had replied: "Lord Erestor quite dislikes Lord Glorfindel. They are forever at odds with each other and constantly arguing about the silliest of things."

"Close maybe, in a way," her husband told her, "but not yet friends. I wish they could be, and I believe Glorfindel has an earnest desire to befriend Erestor, but so far, his attempts have been doubtfully successful. He has a unique ability to cause my chief counselor's temper to flare. I suppose it does not help that Glorfindel can be rather silly and childish at times and Erestor has no patience with such behavior."

"You sent him away on purpose," Celebrían realized.

Elrond nodded. "To let him cool off a bit, and get him out of Erestor's hair for a while. It may do them both good."

He did not mention that he believed Glorfindel to be in love with Erestor, for he judged it too private a matter to discuss with others.

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel returned from his extended hunt with a feeling of grim satisfaction at having killed many foes, renewed confidence in his swordsmanship and a better understanding and knowledge of the boundaries of Imladris and the lay of the land surrounding them. He had not lost a single one of his warriors, which pleased him greatly, and he was generous with praise for their accomplishments.

They were greeted by smiling faces and excited voices when they returned to Imladris and with a strange stab to his heart Glorfindel realized that this place was home now, his home. It would take him some time to get used to that feeling.

He found Elrond in the council chamber and in the company of Erestor, Celebrían and another advisor, Lethe. Lethe appeared to live in his study, or at the very least he only left it for council sessions or when Elrond summoned him, which was why Glorfindel had only seen him once or twice before. He was a soft spoken, bookish fellow, quite accomplished on his own, but overshadowed by the brilliant chief counselor. It was very hard to hold your ground next to Erestor, and impossible to outshine him.

There was a great map spread on the table, and Lethe and Erestor were moving little wooden markers across it, illustrating their discourse. The question, as Glorfindel understood it, were the politics of the human kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. He had heard the names before, but only had a very faint idea what they meant or where those kingdoms were situated. Having grown up in Gondolin, Glorfindel had a rather limited interest in geography. Travelling beyond the boundaries of one's realm without being forced to do so seemed a strange pursuit to him.

"Glorfindel," Elrond acknowledged his presence, looking up. "I am glad for your safe return. I trust you are well?"

Glorfindel inclined his head. "Thank you for asking. I am pleased to report that we have all arrived safe and sound."

"Very good," Elrond said. "Join us, if you please, or if you are tired from your journey, rest first and report to me later."

"I am fine, and I will join you," Glorfindel said. He chose a seat opposite Elrond, next to Lethe, who was too preoccupied to mumble more than a quick greeting, before he resumed his discussion with Erestor.

Glorfindel thought it polite to listen and feign interest, but in truth, the comings and goings of men were of little concern to him.

"The line of Isildur has now perished in both Cardolan and Rhudaur," Lethe reported, "and the three realms that were Arnor are forever at odds and often at war with each other. The chief matter of their debate appears to be the possession of the Weather Hill and the land westward." He pointed at the area on the map.

"It was no better while they were still ruled by Isildur's descendants," Erestor remarked. "They were just as quarrelsome then. Their main concern now is the possession of a high hill they call Amon Súl. It holds the chief Palantír of the north, hence it is a struggle for power. Especially since the third kingdom, Arthedain, has both the others in its keeping." He looked at Elrond. "Your human cousins are a troublesome lot."

"I am not quite sure 'cousins' is the correct term," Elrond said mildly. "Nephews might be more accurate. In any case, I agree with you, and the situation in Arnor bothers me."

Glorfindel frowned trying to find the connection between Elrond and whoever was arguing over the possession of a place with the unlikely name of 'Weather Hill'. He knew of Elrond's twin brother Elros, the one who had chosen a mortal live and become high king of Númenor, and of the fall of said kingdom, but after that...?

Elrond saw his confusion. "Arnor and Gondor are the kingdoms founded by the last surviving Númenorans, the Dúnedain. The members of their ruling lines are my distant kinsmen. Arnor was split into three realms by the sons of its last king Eӓrendur. That was four centuries ago."

"Four centuries," Glorfindel echoed slowly. Time was a strange thing.

"Yes. It has been twelve generations since Isildur. Twelve generations for the Dúnedain, at least, for they have a longer lifespan than other men."

"And you keep watch over these realms of men because they are your distant kinsmen?" Glorfindel asked.

"That is one reason. I have others as well. They are our neighbors and, in the battle of the Last Alliance, were our allies."

Glorfindel nodded. He understood loyalty, and honoring a past shared with another people, especially as great and terrifying a past as that. Both elves and men had gained and lost a lot in that Battle, or so he had been told.

"What about Gondor?" He asked. "Would their kings not have an interest in the fate of Arnor?"

"They have a great interest in it," Erestor said, "but so far, they prefer to do as we do; watch and wait how this plays out. Gondor is not strong enough to take on all three kingdoms at once, and they know it. They might form an alliance with Arthedain, did they not fear that in the end, Arthedain would claim both the other kingdoms for itself."

"The politics of the Edain are a tangled web," Elrond remarked. "Lethe, I would ask you to monitor this situation closely. Gather what information you can, and keep me informed. Arnor was ever your territory of interest, just as Gondor is Erestor's."

Lethe bowed his head and began to gather his papers, knowing that he was dismissed.

"Very well, then. Erestor, if you have the time, meet me in my study before dinner tonight, there is a message from Greenwood that I should like to discuss."

"And I assume it is not an apology from King Thranduil for his behavior at your wedding feast," Erestor muttered.

Elrond's lips twitched. "No, I think not."

"I liked his father better," Erestor said, sighing. " _A lot_ better. All his beauty cannot hide the fact that he is childish and does not have an ounce of good sense, and he is surrounding himself with a court that does not dare to question his foolish notions."

Glorfindel chuckled at that, which earned him a disapproving glance from Erestor.

"Thranduil was very young when he became regent of Greenwood," Elrond explained. "Too young, I think, and he had no one to advise him." He got up. "Do me a favor, Erestor - if you should ever find yourself in the position to advise and tutor my son, do not let him turn into an arrogant, conceited fool like Thranduil."

"You have my word," Erestor said. "But so far, you have no son, and while I hope to see your children grow up, I have no wish to raise them in your stead. " And, in a softer voice he added: "I would not lose you."

Elrond put a hand on his shoulder, smiling. "And you shall not, if I can avoid it. I have much to live for, and no desire whatsoever to leave these shores." He winked at Celebrían, who raised her elegantly curved brows, smiling back at him.

Glorfindel watched the exchange with a stab of jealousy. He had known almost since his arrival that Erestor and Elrond were very close, and it came as no surprise that there was a special bond between Elrond and Celebrían, but he wished with all his heart that there could be a space for him in there, too. They were like a family, and he, the latecomer, the stepchild, was not a real part of it.

Erestor left for his study, then, gathering up the map as he went, and Elrond took Celebrían's arm and led her out of the room.

Glorfindel remained behind, feeling lonely. After a while he got up and returned to his rooms, but there, the feeling only intensified. Erestor had assigned him spacious, well-furnished living quarters, but they did not yet feel like home. They were a place to rest and to sleep, but no more than that.

Mechanically, he stripped off his armor and sword-belt. A visit to the baths was in order and he had been looking forward to it for many days. There were hot springs at Imladris, and they fed several pools cut out of the living rock and filled the domed rooms of the baths with pleasantly warm steam. The baths were open for the use of all inhabitants of Imladris and like the gardens a place for rest and contemplation. Conversations were hushed, so as not to disturb anyone, and every elfling in Imladris learnt that splashing someone with water or sneaking up on them from behind was frowned upon and usually followed by punishment.

That day, Glorfindel met only Firavel, who greeted him with a smile before turning back to combing out her long dark hair, and two young elves, who were Halen's sons, resting languidly in a pool of warm water.

He did not stay long in the baths, for fear of falling asleep in the warm water, and after a brief stop in the kitchens returned to his quarters with a bowl of fruit and a small loaf of fresh bread, compliments of Galread. He ate without any real appetite, leaving the half-finished meal on the table and walking across the room to the window. He opened it to let in some air, but paused in wonder when he looked outside. This window faced the gardens, and he had always thought them beautiful, but now something was different: someone had planted a tall rosebush beneath his window. It was in full bloom, its blossoms large, yellow and glorious with smell. The rosebush was surrounded by smaller plants that were mostly green and carried few blossoms yet, safe for a few tiny golden stars.

His melancholy gone, Glorfindel smiled and bent down to pluck a rose off the bush. He placed it in a small vase beside his bed and fell asleep with its sweet smell permeating the room.

 

* * *

 

 

"Did you plant flowers beneath my window?" Glorfindel asked the gardener, Leliand. She looked up from the seedlings she was carefully repotting in the greenhouse. "Yes, I did," she replied. "Do you like them?"

"Very much," Glorfindel assured her. "What are the little ones called? The golden stars?"

"Elanor," Leliand replied. "The winter star. Lady Celebrían brought the seeds with her from Lothlorien on her first visit here. They will begin to bloom in full as the days grow shorter and colder. They may bloom earlier here than in Lothlorien, since the climate is colder."

"They are lovely," Glorfindel said. "I never saw them before."

Leliand smiled. "I will tell Lord Erestor that you are well pleased with his choices."

"Erestor?" Glorfindel said, taken aback.

"Yes, he asked me to replant the bed beneath your window, and he chose the flowers himself. He even helped me plant the rosebush and after he got stung remarked that it was well suited to its new neighbor, beautiful in appearance, but full of hidden thorns."

"Hark who is talking," Glorfindel murmured, but he could not suppress a smile. "Well, thank you Leliand. I shall cherish those flowers."

He left her in the greenhouse with the seedlings and went to find Erestor in his study.

"Glorfindel," Erestor greeted him, "would you please knock the next time?"

"Why?" Glorfindel asked. "I think neither of us must be afraid that I might find you in a compromising situation, it is very unlikely."

Erestor rolled his eyes. "Well, no, but I was working, and you interrupted me."

"I came to thank you."

Erestor cocked his head to the side. "Yes?"

"For the flowers. They are very beautiful."

"Flowers?" Erestor asked, his face betraying nothing. "Oh, the rosebush and the Elanor from Lothlorien. Lady Celebrían asked me to plant some flowers from her home in the gardens. She wishes to be reminded of Lothlorien when she walks there."

"I somehow doubt she asked you to plant them beneath my window," Glorfindel replied, smirking. "Especially since she barely knows me. No, I think those flowers were planted out of consideration by one who knows that a golden flower was the treasured symbol of my house." He looked at Erestor, who held his gaze for a moment before looking away. "Am I right?"

"Well, I do owe you thanks. For what you did during the feast," Erestor said quietly, as if still embarrassed.

"I told you I would not let you drop dead at Elrond's feet. That would have been a fine wedding present! Besides, I quite enjoyed telling the dwarves to raid the wine cellar."

"I doubt you took pleasure in dealing with the Greenwood delegation."

"Ugh, Thranduil and his kin, yes. You are perfectly right, he is a lovely fool. I do pity his wife, though. I hope she married him for his looks, because otherwise he must be a great disappointment."

Erestor smiled briefly at that and looking at him Glorfindel thought that while Thranduil was magnificent in his pale, silver glory, he was worth as little as common silver was held against mithril when compared to Erestor.

Erestor looked away again, unable or unwilling to face him for an extended period of time. Painful memories, Glorfindel supposed. _I wish I could take them from you, or at least share some of the pain, but you will never let me get that close, will you?_

"Well, thank you again for the flowers," he said after an awkward pause. "I will leave you to your work now."

 

* * *

 

 

The rosebush beneath Glorfindel's window grew and blossomed. The elanor soon covered most of the flowerbed and spread to the neighboring meadow. As the days grew shorter, tiny golden stars bloomed amid the green, lovely in their fragile perfection. Autumn swept the leaves of the trees and shrouded the valley of Imladris in fog. The first frost transformed the last blooms of the rosebush to cold, breathtaking sculptures, and still the tiny golden stars blossomed. Finally, winter covered them with a thick, white blanket of snow, but they reappeared the following year, and more beautiful than before.

Spring decked the rosebush and the entire garden in a beautiful cloak of a thousand shades of green. Summer brought its flowers back.

Years passed nearly unnoticed by the inhabitants of Imladris, but the rosebush grew and climbed the wall behind its bed, crawling upwards towards the windowsill and further still, engulfing the window. Leliand cut it into form with almost surgical precision, preventing it from taking over the window completely and crawling into the room, but Glorfindel would let her do no more than that. He had grown fond of his rosebush.

With the rosebush, the household also grew, as year after year, Imladris welcomed new arrivals. Elves came from all other realms, and children were born, and others grew into adults in the safe confines of the Valley. Over time, Imladris had acquired a household guard that was not far from a small army and secured the Valley and surrounding country against marauding orcs and other creatures. Craftsmen and scholars, minstrels and poets and sculptors and smiths, they all came to Imladris. Some stayed for months, some for years, some forever.

One summer afternoon, Lady Celebrían walked the gardens and stopped by the window, inhaling the sweet smell of the golden roses. "Glorfindel," she asked, " may I break a rose of your bush? Those are the most beautiful to be found in the gardens."

"For you, my lady, I will break it myself," he said with a smile and chose the largest, fullest rose he could find, handing it to her.

Celebrían returned his smile. "Thank you."

"Are you not attending today's council?" Glorfindel asked. He was surprised, for she usually did.

"No, I have decided against it, as I have nothing of worth to contribute, knowing little of the kingdoms of men," she replied. "It is for the scholars and the wise among the council to discuss, and I am neither."

"Then we have a similar reason for not joining the others," Glorfindel said. "For my place is not among the scholars or the wise, either. I often attend for the pleasure of listening to Erestor's, Elrond's and Lethe's discourse, they form a formidable triumvirate. But I have little to add to their words."

"Then keep me company," Celebrían suggested.

"Gladly," Glorfindel said and went to join her.

Together, they walked the gardens for a while, enjoying the sunbathed warmth of summer and the many colors and smells it had brought back.

"Leliand told me that Erestor planted your rosebush as a gift," Celebrían said.

"Maybe it was more of an apology than a gift," Glorfindel replied, "and if so, one grudgingly given. But he alone knows what these golden flowers mean to me, hence it was a very thoughtful gesture."

"He is still not quite comfortable in your presence," Celebrían observed. "He hides it well, but not well enough to fool his friends."

"No," Glorfindel said, and there was a bitter regret in his voice, "there is still much left unsaid between us."

"You need not tell me if it pains you to speak of it," she said kindly. "But know that I am your friend, and that it causes me unhappiness to see this rift between the two of you. Can it not be mended?"

"I know not how," Glorfindel answered with a sigh. "If I did, I would have attempted it long ago. I carry a guilt with me, and a duty, and Erestor carries the burden of many harsh years. I asked for his friendship, but it seems that it is a gift he is unable to give."

"You care for him," Celebrían said, placing a hand on his arm.

Glorfindel smiled wistfully. _My lady, if only you knew... but better that you should not know. You have a gentle heart, and others' troubles cause you sorrow._

"The feeling is not mutual, I assure you."

"And that rejection pains you."

"It is hard to be a friend of one who wishes for nothing better than to see you gone from his life."

"Maybe you are too hard on yourself and on him. Erestor has never given any sign of hating you. Maybe your presence brings back memories he would wish to leave untouched, but I believe he is strong enough to face them." Celebrían thoughtfully turned the golden rose between her fingers. "And he might gain much from the experience."

"You may be right, but moving a mountain might be an easier task than trying to convince Erestor of that."

She turned to face him again, smiling. "I have faith in you. And how does one move a mountain, Glorfindel, if not patiently and with many an hour of hard labor?"

 

* * *

 

 

As the news carried to Imladris from the kingdoms of men grew darker and darker, there was much dissent among the council as to how to treat with this problem. Several times, they were joined in the council chambers by Galadriel and Celeborn and by the wizards, and the king of Gondor sent envoys frequently, but there was no consent over the matter of Arnor.

Erestor, weary of wars, for he had seen too many, spoke against any kind of forcible intervention, and proposed a diplomatic approach, but as the ambassador from Gondor put it and others agreed, "one cannot treat with Angmar, not without losing one's soul and more". Erestor turned to Mithrandir, ever an opponent of war, but the wizard, too, seemed troubled by the uncanny new power that rose in the North.

Disillusioned and dissatisfied after one more long and fruitless discussion, Erestor went to the Hall of Fires, seeking distraction and lighter company. He sat next to Firavel, for a while, and listened to her sweet song, watching in amusement as Celeth, one of the Galadrim that had arrived with Lady Celebrían, watched the minstrel with lovesick eyes. Firavel was well aware of his plight and took a mischievous delight in teasing him. After a while, Erestor left the two of them to their games and went to find Galreäd, who was telling a story to a group of children, nibbling on gingerbread and honey cakes. Erestor smiled at his friend, stole a honey cake and sat down, only to immediately find himself beleaguered by children. Two of them climbed onto his lap, and Leliand's daughter Mirún took to playing with his hair, earnestly braiding it with flowers from the garden as if he were her personal doll.

Erestor let them play, closed his eyes and let the comfortable lull of Galreäd's calm voice, the whispering and giggling of the children and the cackling of the fire wash over him. He was already half asleep, and Mirún had braided his hair into a flower garden that would have made her mother proud, when a new voice from the far end of the hall roused him from his reverie.

Glorfindel had a great singing voice. It was no wonder Firavel often gave him her lute and asked him to sing, much to the delight of the other inhabitants of Imladris. That night, they sang a duet so sweet that even Celeth (who was morbidly jealous of the golden-haired Lord) could not help but applaud them. It was a pleasant, joyful song, a summer song.

Erestor sighed. Sometimes he wished for a convenient memory loss, too. Glorfindel would have been so easy to like but for the dark and tearful memories he evoked. But whenever Erestor looked at him, he found himself transported back in time, back to Gondolin, towards the sunny days of his childhood and their sudden, brutal end. There was a dark sea of memories between him and Glorfindel, deeper than the abyss that had swallowed him and the Balrog.

With the song come to an end, Glorfindel bowed, but he handed the harp not to Firavel, but to Celeth. "Come now," he said to the elf from Lorien, "you are not so shy as to refuse to sing for us. I have heard you sing before, with your comrades. I am sure there is many a fine song from the woodland kingdom that we have not heard before." It was smoothly done, Erestor thought. Of course, Celeth could not refuse the challenge, and as he began to sing, Glorfindel idly sauntered away, leaving Celeth to woo the ever-curious minstrel with songs she had not heard before.

"Glorfindel!" The children squealed as he approached, and several of them ran towards him. Glorfindel was a great favorite with the children, they loved his cheerfulness and indulgence. With an elfling on his hip and another upon his shoulder, tugged by the hand by a third, Glorfindel joined Erestor and Galreäd.

"I do like your new hairstyle," he told Erestor, grinning. And turning to Mirún he said: "Very nicely done, my sweet. He will have a terrible time getting all of those flowers out of his hair when they wither and dry, but for now he looks as glorious as a woodland meadow in maytime. And we should never aspire to less than the highest beauty."

Mirún giggled. "Shall I braid yours to? But I am all out of flowers."

"That does not surprise me," he said, "indeed I do not think that there was a single flower in the gardens that has not found its way into Erestor's hair tonight."

"I could use ribbons," she suggested.

"By all means," Galreäd laughed, no doubt imagining Glorfindel with his hair braided with colorful ribbons.

"Wait here!" Mirún told Glorfindel. "Do not go away! I will run and get the ribbons." And she ran off, some of the other children following her.

"Very nice indeed," Glorfindel said, plucking a white carnation from Erestor's hair. "Do me a favor and ask her to braid your hair for the next feast Elrond has you organize in honor of foreign dignitaries."

"Not very likely," Erestor huffed, but he was unable to hide a smile. "I might set her upon Thranduil's trail, though, next time he visits. He has magnificent hair, I am sure Mirún would enjoy braiding it."

Glorfindel threw his head back laughing loudly at the idea of little Mirún's nimble fingers assaulting King Thranduil's silver mane. "The children love you," he said when he had calmed down a bit. "They are the only ones but Elrond and Celebrían who do not live in fear of your temper."

"Surely you do not fear my temper?" Erestor teased. "I am quite sure that I am less fearsome than a Balrog, and we all know you do not fear those."

"Uh, tell us of the Balrog, Glorfindel!" The children squealed. They loved scary stories of monsters.

Glorfindel shook his head. "No, not tonight. You might like the story, but I know for a fact that Erestor does not, and I would not spoil his evening."

"Are you afraid of the Balrog, Erestor?" The smallest elfling piped.

"Oh, terrified," Erestor said with a sad smile, and it was at least a half-truth.

"Glorfindel will protect you!" Mirún said, newly returned with a handful of ribbons. The others all agreed with her. "He is very strong, and he will not let anything happen to you, or to any of us."

Can he protect me from my memories? Erestor thought, but he said nothing. Neither did Glorfindel, which surprised him.

"Tell us a story, Glorfindel," the children pleaded.

"No, it is almost your bedtime and you already plagued Galreäd for stories. Another night."

"Please."

He shook his head. "Look, here are Vilra and Leliand, come to take you away to bed."

"Noooo!" They wailed, but were shepherded away, nevertheless.

"I suppose I must now finish that myself," Glorfindel said, looking at the end of his half-finished braid. "Unless you will do it for me?" He looked at Erestor.

Erestor shook his head. "Not one of my talents, I am afraid."

"There is something you are not good at? I am surprised."

"Then you have never seen him handle a sword," Galreäd said, laughing.

"Indeed, I have not," Glorfindel said, eyeing Erestor with interest. "Were you not taught to fight?"

"By whom?" Erestor asked softly. "My father died before I was born and everyone else before I was old enough to properly hold one. I have been taught to kill, but only as a means for survival, never as a form of art."

He watched Glorfindel's face fall and pale at his words, and it offered him none of the satisfaction he had hoped for. Galreäd looked shocked, and quickly excused himself. Erestor felt sorry for scaring him away.

"Whatever I say to you, I never seem to find the right words," Glorfindel finally said. "They turn to ash before even leaving my mouth."

"It is not entirely your fault," Erestor said, trying to be just. "Neither of us can change who we are."

"That is small comfort," Glorfindel responded, shaking his head. "Here I am, persuading Firavel to sing a new song instead of the ones from Gondolin she so loves, because I knew you were listening. But as soon as I approach you, I find a means of hurting you anyway. Maybe I should take the children's advice and go and find myself another Balrog, channeling my destructive energy into something useful."

Erestor was taken aback by his reaction. He had not thought that Glorfindel would take his words to heart and let them upset him so. "I know that you mean well, Glorfindel," he said. "You have shown me every courtesy and consideration since you arrived at Imladris. You are not to blame for my inability to forget the past."

"And yet my presence causes you discomfort," Glorfindel stated, blue eyes gazing intently at him.

"Yes," Erestor said, holding his gaze, "but that is a dark spot upon my soul, not upon yours."

"It troubles me. We might spend a long time together, as we are both bound to Elrond and his house, and I would rather know a friend at my side than one who in his heart still resents me for abandoning him." Glorfindel sighed. "I would change the past, if I could. I would save our city, the most beautiful city there ever was, and all of its people whom we both loved. I tried to do both, but I was but one against many foes, and when Ecthelion fell, I lost my hope. I tried to get as many of our kinsfolk to safety as I could, holding the passageways against the enemy. I lost you, amid the chaos, and the Lady Ersinoё... I succeeded in spiriting the princess away to safety, and her retinue, and I set out to find the remnants of my house and Ecthelion's, but before I could reach you, the Balrog got in the way. I saw Lady Ersinoё's face as I fell, and I heard her call my name, before the orcs got to her. Never have I heard such a scream, before or after..." His gaze lost in the past, he seemed to relive those last moments.

Erestor's nails dug sharply into his palms. "Stop," he uttered, "I do not want to hear any more."

Glorfindel, looked up, suddenly. There was an emptiness in his blue eyes. "There is no more," he said. "I fell into darkness. I do not remember anything else."

"Then count yourself blessed," Erestor whispered. Vivid shades danced in front of his eyes, horrible, screaming masks of terror and agony. Elrond's warm, comfortable hall seemed to be suddenly filled with shadows and cries.

"It was burning," Glorfindel said slowly. "The city was burning."

"And we with it," Erestor said. "A fire that can never be put out, and a pain that will never be soothed." They tore at him, all those shades, as they had been doing through two ages now. Never quiet, never appeased.

"She died then, did she not?" Glorfindel asked.

"Who?" Shadows and fire, and screams.

"Lady Ersinoё. She died at the edge of the abyss, as the Balrog pulled me down. And I could do nothing to help her."

Erestor remembered her, Ecthelion's sister, a slender, dark haired maiden with a silver coronet of birds upon her brow. She had often been kind to him, a quiet, gentle presence in the house. He remembered her singing a lullaby and feeding her nightingales in their silver cage. He had not seen her die, and was glad for it.

"Let us hope, that it was quick," was all he could say, "and that she did not have to suffer needlessly, for she least of all deserved it."

"She was to be my bride," Glorfindel said, as if he had only just remembered it. "Had we both lived and Gondolin prevailed, our marriage would have formed a bond between our houses." There was an odd inflection in his voice, and Erestor felt sure that if his face had not been turned away, he would have seen melancholy in his expression, but also guilt.

_You forgot her, like so many others. You forgot me, too, for a while. But you never forgot Ecthelion..._

"There was already a bond," he replied. "You loved her brother." And they both knew that he did not mean as a friend.

Glorfindel opened his mouth, maybe to try and deny it, but he thought better of it.

"Not that it matters, now," Erestor added. "Not when they are both dead." Shades, their dark eyes directed at him, full of accusation. Why did you survive, little child, while we all passed away? Little orphan, raised from obscurity by the grace of a benevolent mistress, why did you survive us? Why did you not die, as you ought to have, as all the other children of nobler birth? Only two children had survived the Fall of Gondolin to grow into adulthood, Eärendil and Erestor.

Erestor spread his hands, looking at their paleness and remembering that he had once washed them in blood.

"Such pain," Glorfindel said softly, "and you carry it as your burden." The caring gentleness in his voice cut deeper than any blade he swung could have. Erestor was well aware of the fact that his rejection hurt Glorfindel, who wanted nothing better than to share the stories and memories of their lost home and friends. Denying him that wish and made Erestor feel guilty and cold-hearted, especially since Glorfindel had undertaken every conceivable effort to befriend him and showed genuine affection and understanding, even now.

_Yes, I carry it as my burden. I did not choose it, but it fell to me. And it is one I do not wish to share with you, or anyone else, but I appreciate your compassion._

"One of us needs to remember the Fall," he replied after a brief silence. "The dead refuse to be forgotten. And if they haunt my dreams until the end of my days, then that is the price I must pay for the gift of my life." He looked up. Glorfindel sat across from him, his head bowed, his messily braided hair falling into his face. Erestor found that he could not doubt him anymore.

_Late you may have come, but not by your own choice._

He reached out a hand, touching Glorfindel's shoulder. "Do me a favor," he bade him, "let us speak no more of those memories, and keep me company as I try to rid myself of Mirún's flower garden. I may need a helping hand."

Glorfindel raised his head, studying the colorful creation. "Maybe some of them can be salvaged as a bouquet," he suggested.

 

* * *

 

 

Troubling news from Arnor brought messengers and envoys to Imladris, and one of those was Alfar, head of a delegation sent by Lord Círdan of the Grey Havens. It was not the first time he had come as a messenger to Imladris and he was received graciously by both Elrond and Erestor. He was thoughtful, and a master of old lore, and spoke quietly and kindly to everyone he met. Glorfindel took an almost instant liking to him, especially once he found out that Alfar's real talent and passion - apart from collecting and retelling stories - was the making of bows, some of the finest to be found in Middle Earth. Elrond had one of them, given to him as a gift on Alfar's last visit to Imladris and Glorfindel had often admired its craftsmanship.

"It takes time," Alfar told him about his art, "time and patience and commitment. I built bows for many years, only to discard them afterwards, because they were flawed. Several times during my apprenticeship, I was very close to giving it all up and looking for an easier pastime. But I was always drawn back to it."

"Maybe it is your calling," Glorfindel said, admiring one of the bows. The wood was so pale it seemed almost white.

Alfar looked up at him and smiled. "Maybe," he replied. "And of course, all of my best works were not mine alone." He gestured for one of the other members of his delegation to step closer. She was a Silvan elf, tall and willowy with hair shining bright in the sunlight. "Miruvel, my companion of many years, and joint creator of our masterworks."

Miruvel smiled, and her features softened into an expression of delightful, unguarded affection and kindness. Glorfindel could see that it was easy to love her and had no doubt that Alfar did.

"Would you like to try it?" She asked, nodding towards the bow in Glorfindel's hand.

"I was afraid you would never ask," he replied, returning their smiles, and they both laughed.

"You are a warrior, Glorfindel, it would have been a great surprise had you been able to keep your hands off those bows," Alfar said. "Even Elrond was excited when he got his - in a very dignified way, befitting of an elder and a lord, that is."

"Well, no one does dignity like Elrond. I am quite possibly the oldest living thing in this realm, but I have been assured numerous times that it does not show in my daily behavior. Usually by Erestor. He thinks me quite silly."

"If you feel the need to run about the training grounds randomly shooting at targets and hollering every time you hit one, we will be sure not to tell him," Miruvel said, still smiling.

"Thank you. I have a feeling I might do just that."

"Go ahead," Alfar said, looking amused. "It seems like an enjoyable way to spend the morning, so I will join you."

Alfar was a superb archer, and if Glorfindel won their improvised competition that morning, it was by hairsbreadth and sheer luck. They soon acquired a crowd of cheering spectators, formed mainly by the younger population of Imladris. The cheering rose when Alfar bowed to Glorfindel, acknowledging his victory.

"You seem to be quite popular," Alfar noted, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

"I train most of them," Glorfindel replied, grinning.

"And you enjoy it."

"Quite. They are good company."

"You are not what I expected you to be," Alfar confessed.

"Oh?" Glorfindel was a bit surprised he had expected anything.

"Well, I know your story," Alfar explained. "That should not surprise you, I am a collector of stories and yours is one of the most intriguing ones I have heard so far."

"Because being pulled into an abyss by a Balrog is such a great way to leave the mortal realms," Glorfindel suggested wryly. He was able to joke about it now and quite proud of that.

"No, that is not what I meant," Alfar said. "I meant before that. In Gondolin."

"Oh dear. Please do not tell me that you have been talking to Erestor?"

"Not yet, not about you. Should I?" There was a glint in his grey eyes.

"Well," Glorfindel said, "in favor of my own pride and dignity, I am going to answer no to that question. Though I am sure that as a lore master, you would find Erestor's recollections quite fascinating, if he were willing to share them. Which, lucky for me, he is not."

"Ah." Alfar nodded sagely. "So, the two of you do have a history. I was wondering about that. Erestor is not the only Gondolinian survivor I have met, however. There are - or were - a few others."

"Do I know any of them personally?" Glorfindel asked, intrigued.

Alfar shook his head. "No, probably not. But they knew you - or rather, they knew of you. You were a rather prominent figure in Gondolin."

"So," Glorfindel said, "you wish to hear stories from Gondolin."

"If you are willing to share them," Alfar amended. "I would understand if those memories were too painful or personal to speak of."

"You are the first one to ask. Everyone else seems to either believe that I still remember nothing of my past or has refrained from asking for fear of causing me discomfort." _And the only one I wish to speak to of Gondolin refuses for fear of being hurt..._

"You must think me tactless."

Glorfindel smiled. "No. You are simply curious, and I understand. Yet I would rather not tell those stories in the Hall of Fires in front of the whole household. You are very welcome to join me in my own quarters, however... and your companion as well, if she pleases."

Alfar inclined his head. "Thank you. I shall ask her, but do not be surprised or take it as an insult if she declines your offer. Miruvel has a great love of music, and Elrond has gathered many fine musicians here who fill his hall with songs. She might be drawn to the Hall of Fires to listen to them instead."

 

* * *

 

 

True to his word, Alfar joined Glorfindel that night in his quarters, but as he had predicted, Miruvel was not with him.

"When I saw her last, she was listing to Firavel sing a song from Lothlorien, while one of the children was braiding her hair with flowers," Alfar explained with a smile, settling down on soft cushions across from Glorfindel. There was a quiet, unstudied grace to his movements; it was a pleasure to watch him.

"That would be Mirún, Leliand's daughter. She has taken to doing that lately, much to her mother's dismay. It seems to be taking a rather large toll on the flower garden."

"The rosebush outside your window seems fine," Alfar noted.

"My rosebush is a thorny, resilient vine. Mirún got stung once and has been avoiding it ever since." He smiled to himself.

"I am curious," Alfar said, "Lady Celebrían mentioned that there is a story to that rosebush, too."

"I thought you were here to hear stories about Gondolin?" Glorfindel teased, pouring golden summer wine into two cups.

Alfar cocked his head to the side. It made him look like a great and cunning bird, a raven, maybe. "And could you not build a bridge between them? A golden flower was the symbol of your house, was it not?"

"I am surprised you know that," Glorfindel said, "not many do, these days."

Alfar smiled over the rim of his cup. "I am a collector of stories, Glorfindel. I have an eye for such details and I make a point of remembering them." He smiled easily, Glorfindel noticed.

"Here's to you then," he said, raising his cup. "And yes, the rosebush really stands for my house. Erestor planted it. I am still undecided as to whether it was a simple gift, a means of thanking me for helping him out when he was in a tight spot, or an apology for the fact that he is making me miserable by letting me know that I am making him miserable. I am suspecting the last, though."

"You really do have a complicated relationship with Erestor," Alfar stated. "And it goes back all the way to Gondolin?"

Glorfindel nodded and took a sip of his wine. "Erestor was raised in the House of the Fountain. If you have heard anything of Gondolin, I am sure you will have heard about how closely our houses were bound by mutual ties of affection and loyalty."

"I have heard of your friendship with Ecthelion, of course."

Glorfindel's lip curled slightly. _I wonder w_ hat _you heard, Alfar..._  "Of course." He sighed. "We do make quite a story, I suppose. Two warriors, united by bonds of friendship, riding into battle side by side, and perishing both... the fabric of legends." And, after a moment of quiet reflection, he added in a softer tone of voice: "I was not with him when he died." _Would that I had been. But at least he was spared the pain of watching me fall._

Alfar leant a little closer and laid a hand on his arm. "I have no wish to cause you pain by making you revisit those memories. Tell me something that you can speak of without bitterness, instead."

 _Why am I not having this conversation with Erestor?_ Glorfindel asked himself silently. _Why Alfar, whom I barely know, instead of the only one who really knows what those memories mean to me? I will have to contend myself with a substitute, but why, Erestor, are you making me do this...?_

Well, at least someone was willing to listen.

"I was born in Gondolin, when it was at the height of its power and beauty," he told Alfar, "and a more beautiful city has never existed in the mortal realms... I was the youngest branch of a noble and powerful house, an only child, and much beloved by my parents. I had a happy childhood. The children of the other noble houses were my constant companions and playmates, but I chose to elevate one above all others in my esteem, and that was Ecthelion. From an early age on, we were inseparable, and our fathers looked benevolently upon that friendship, fostering it where they could. We were raised and trained and instructed together, in all the arts of war and peace. When Ecthelion's sister was born and grew into a healthy girl and a lovely young maiden, it was decided that we should seal the bond between our houses by our union. Her name was Ersinoë, and she was fair of mind and body like no other in the city of Gondolin, except maybe the princess herself..." Raven-haired and pale as the winter moon, and her features so much like her brother's, but cast in a softer, gentler mold. With a stab to his heart, Glorfindel realized that he still missed her soft laughter and the lilting birdsong of her voice. She had been family to him, after he had lost his own, just as her brother and mother had been.

"You loved her," Alfar assumed.

"No," Glorfindel disagreed, "but I might have grown to love her, had she lived. She could have filled the void that was left within my house and my heart after the loss of my parents. Love does not come suddenly to all of us, as it did to Lord Elrond, who looked upon his wife and loved her then. Rather, it grows over time, like a flower on fertile soil."

Alfar nodded sagely. "A true observation. If I look back on my own love for Miruvel, I find that it did not strike as sudden lightning either."

_And I am willing to believe that, as you are willing to believe me. But one of us is lying, still._

_Ecthelion, and Erestor... love struck me twice, and quite unexpectedly. True, I could have loved Ersinoë, for being Ecthelion's sister. But never in her own right. Poor moon-pale maiden! And she was always true to me, so earnest in her desire to fulfill her father's and brother's wish..._

"So," Alfar said, "you would have married the Lady Ersinoë of the House of the Fountain, whose brother was your dearest friend. And Erestor?"

Strange that Alfar should mention him, just when a thread of Glorfindel's thoughts had reached out and drawn him into the story he was spinning. Yet Erestor, truth be told, was for better or for worse never truly absent from his thoughts.

_And this is his story, too..._

"Erestor was taken in as a child by the Lady Elarael and by Ecthelion himself and raised by them. His father had died before he was born, an unfortunate accident. He was a stonemason, one of the best Gondolin had ever seen. Part of a building collapsed on him and two apprentices, it was a great tragedy. His wife, Erestor's mother Arwa, was overcome with grief and I have heard the Lady Elaraël say that that is what killed her, shortly after the birth of her son. She did not want to live without her husband. She left her infant son behind, and the Lady of the House if the Fountain took pity on him. She was kind and affectionate, but firm, as she had been with her own children. However, her efforts were regularly thwarted by Ecthelion, who loved Erestor as a doting older brother. Never was a child so spoiled in his early years... well, except me, but that is an entirely different story." He smiled, a bittersweet smile filled with memories.

"It makes perfect sense to me now," Alfar said complacently, taking a grape from the plate on the low table between them.

"Oh?" Glorfindel raised his brows.

"Your rivalry with Erestor," his guest elaborated with a mocking glint in his eyes. "Two spoilt children, competing for a father's attention. The father in this case being Elrond, of course. "

Glorfindel laughed. He had never looked at it that way, and there was little truth to it, but the idea amused him. "We are both quite a bit older than Elrond," he reminded Alfar gently, "even though we may not look the part."

"No matter. It is the roles you assumed that count, and Elrond is your liege lord, a truly paternal role, especially the way he fills it."

"Ah, but you missed an important point: Elrond may _think_ he is the master of the house, but in truth, it is Erestor who runs things. Without Erestor, the complicated machinery that makes up a household as grand as Imladris would cease to function. All the wheels would stop turning and it would be one great chaos. I am not sure how he does it, but he is absolutely indispensable, and that, my friend, is _real_ power." He took another sip of his wine and wondered where Erestor might be at this time, and what he might be doing. Something productive, no doubt. The word leisure was not part of his everyday vocabulary. He would be in his study, poring over letters or household accounts, or in the library, researching for a report he intended to write on matters of state in Gondor, or maybe mediating a dispute between members of the household over some silly thing, or taking inventory, or earnestly discussing her silkworms with Limre.

Glorfindel was unaware of the soft smile that crept onto his face as he thought of Erestor, the affectionate tenderness that softened his stern features, but Alfar, ever observant of details, noticed it.

"You have an odd look on your face. Fond memories?" He suggested.

Glorfindel jerked out of his reverie and shook his head. "It is nothing. Yes... memories."

Little did he know that Alfar, much like Elrond, had the uncanny ability to spy a lie in any context or wrapping.

 

* * *

 

 

"Have you seen Glorfindel?" Erestor asked Elrond.

Elrond looked up from the map he had been studying. "Not recently, but I believe he and Alfar are working with the archers." He glanced at the map again. "I need you to find accommodations for a delegation from Gondor and envoys from Lothlorien."

Erestor bowed his head. "I see. How many?"

"Seventeen from Gondor, eight from Lothlorien."

"I may have to shuffle and squeeze, but I will find the space."

"Good." Elrond was carefully marking positions on the map.

Erestor sighed. "This place is turning into an army headquarter," he remarked laconically.

Elrond looked up. "I am afraid so, and I do not like it any better than you do, but if we are going to fight this war, careful planning is of the utmost importance."

"If, Elrond? It seems to me that it has already been decided. You are raising an army and making alliances, and whenever I see you these days it is either at a council meeting, or poring over a map, or discussing strategy with Glorfindel."

"I am placing him in command," Elrond said, ignoring most of Erestor's remark.

Erestor shook his head. "What do you expect me to say, that I am glad you are not leading our forces into battle yourself? I am. Or rather, I would be, if I did not know that you will go with them in any case. Do me a favor and at least leave him the glory of charging into battle alone at the front of the army while you watch from a distance. Glorfindel will thank you for it, fool that he is, and at the very least, he does not have a wife who loves him and a realm that needs him."

"That does not make him expendable."

"I never said he was. It would be a sore loss."

Elrond raised his brows. "Coming from you and regarding him, that is a rare compliment, Erestor."

Erestor waved a vague hand. "Contrary to popular opinion, I do not dislike Glorfindel, nor have I ever disregarded his merits. I was merely stating a fact: he would not be missed as much as you would, were either of you to fall battle. And that is always a possibility."

" _I_ would certainly miss Glorfindel," Elrond said, marked disapproval in his voice. "And so would Celebrían. He is a dear friend to both of us, and to many of this household." His grey eyes fixed Erestor with a long glance, a look that seemed to search the hidden depths of his heart.

Erestor smiled wryly. "No matter what you are looking for, Elrond, you will not find it there. When I am ready to tell you, you will know.        "

"Pray that it be not too late, then," Elrond muttered. "Even your time may run short one day, Erestor."

A slight tremble ran through Erestor at those words, a hint of the foresight he sometimes possessed. "It may already be too late," he said shortly and without another word of explanation took his leave.

Elrond looked at his retreating form and sighed. "Now you realize that," he said. "You close your eyes and refuse to see for so many years and on the eve a battle that may be our last you finally open them. You truly are a fool among the wise, my friend."

 

* * *

 

 

Erestor went to the Hall of Fires late in the dusky afternoon to oversee preparations for a nightly feast, and in the midst of organizing seating arrangements that would accommodate everyone found himself approached by Alfar.

The elf from the Havens was not for the first time a guest at Imladris, and this time he had already been staying for a while. Erestor knew him to be a courteous guest and highly regarded by Elrond.

"Erestor," Alfar said, "a word?" He stood tall and calm at Erestor's left side, a long braid of hair slung over one shoulder.

Erestor looked up at him questioningly.

"If your time permits, I would speak to you tonight," Alfar said, and there was something hidden beneath the formality of the words, a sliver of insecurity, maybe, though it was hard to imagine in one of Alfar's standing. It intrigued Erestor.

"You may speak to me now, if you choose, I am almost done here," he replied, waving Halen over to his other side to quietly pass a few more instructions. Halen nodded, and Erestor turned to Alfar. "I am at your service."

"I rather doubt that," Alfar said with a glint of mischievous humor in his eyes. "Service does not come easily to you, and you recognize no lord but Elrond."

"I did not ask for an analysis of my character," Erestor replied crossly. "I get enough of that from Glorfindel, who by merit of having known me as a child believes that he also knows me as an adult, despite the fact that he spent the larger part of my adult life dead to this world."

Alfar smiled. "Since you brought his name up, you spare me the need to do so. Will you come outside with me?"

Erestor shrugged and followed him outside and onto one of the terraces overlooking the valley. "So," he said, looking down at the white foam rising from one of the waterfalls where a stream gushed into the deep. "You would speak of Glorfindel to me? I may not be the best reference. Anyone at Imladris can tell you that I am at least biased when it comes to him."

"Apart from Elrond, though, you may also be the one who knows him best in this house, and this is a matter I cannot discuss with Elrond," Alfar responded.

"His counsel is wise," Erestor stated, biting back the unspoken _and you might benefit from it_.

"I do not desire counsel," Alfar said. "Merely a simple answer to a simple question."

"There is no such thing as a simple question or a simple answer," Erestor replied, "but ask away."

"Does Glorfindel have a lover or a companion in this second life of his?"

He had not expected this question. Of all the inappropriate questions to be asked, this one was the least likely.

Erestor's head jerked up and he stared at Alfar, dark eyes widened in surprise (and maybe in shock).

"I apologize if I have startled you," Alfar said. "It was not my intention."

"Well," Erestor said drily, after drawing in a sharp breath and trying to regain his composure, "at least now I understand why you could not take this up with Elrond."

Alfar nodded.

"It is a question you should ask Glorfindel, though," Erestor continued.

"I cannot, not without betraying my intentions."

"Your..." Erestor drew another sharp breath - "your intentions. Oh." Well. That was... unexpected. He walked to the edge of the terrace, too agitated to remain still. Alfar followed him slowly and at a comfortable distance.

"I see," Erestor said, after staring down into the deep for a long moment.

"I need to know, because if he did, my advances might not only be unwelcome, but also a grievous insult to a third party," Alfar elaborated. "And I cannot ask Glorfindel, not without alerting him to the purpose behind that question."

Erestor nodded. It was a sensible, even delicate thing to do. And if so, why did it upset him so much? Maybe because he was the one asked such a question about another's most private interests...

"No." he finally said. "No, there is no one that I know of, even though Glorfindel has many admirers and more than one of them would be glad to take a place by his side. But for all his popularity and flirtations, there is no one who has a claim to his heart. You will not cause harm or insult." And in a much lower voice he added: "At least not to the living."

But Alfar had very sharp ears. "Ah," he said, "yes, I suspected something like that. He left someone behind in Gondolin, when it fell, did he not?"

"He left many people behind," Erestor replied with sudden vehemence that even startled him himself, "most of them are dead now."

"But not all," Alfar said, clear eyes on his face. Erestor turned his gaze away. "No," he said, "not all."

"And you remember."

"It was not much of a secret." Erestor watched the dusk cloth Imladris in a soft cape of dove-grey velvet. In the shadows, just at the edge of his vision, he saw the ever-present image of another city, long since lost and yet remembered. "Glorfindel loved my brother, and since he was never particularly circumspect about his feelings, most of Gondolin, or at least all of those who paid any attention to the two of them, knew. So did Ecthelion, even though he never mentioned it aloud. It was an unspoken truth between the two of them."

He remembered their friendship, the close companionship he had always envied, even while he was loved and cherished as a brother by Ecthelion and treated with affectionate indulgence by Glorfindel. The fact that it was a one-sided attraction had apparently never mattered. Glorfindel never asked Ecthelion for anything but his friendship and his loyalty, and gave him his love as an unspoilt, innocent gift, and Ecthelion loved him for it.

"So, Ecthelion," Alfar said, nodding to himself, "yes, that makes sense." And wryly he added: "Even if it discourages me. The dead are often more formidable rivals than the living."

"Maybe," Erestor said. "And what of your companion Miruvel?"

"She knows," Alfar said complacently. "Miruvel and I do not keep any secrets from one another, and so she was the first I confided in."

They had some sort of arrangement, Erestor assumed, and this was probably not the first time one of them sought love or companionship outside their bond.

"In that case, I have nothing more to add," he finally said, but without looking at Alfar. "I have answered your question."

"Yes, you have," Alfar acknowledged, and when it became clear that Erestor would say no more, he retreated back into the house.

Erestor was left behind in the darkening twilight, his mind and heart in a state of turmoil. Alfar's question had surprised him, but it had also steered his thoughts onto a course he did not wish to pursue. It had brought Ecthelion back to his mind, and those memories he fought so hard to repress. Memories of the great stone palace that was the seat of the House of the Fountain, the palace whose vaulted ceilings his father had decorated with finely carven flowers and ornaments, the palace that had become his home after the death of his parents... its gardens, beautiful in their green spring dress. He walked through them, led by the hand by Lady Ersinoë, and her white greyhound followed at their heels. There were flowering shrubs and apple trees, a thousand sweet smells, and sparkling fountains, their basins inlaid with intricate mosaics. Birds sung in the trees above them, and Ersinoë named each of them to him, recognizing their voices; blackbirds and larks, robins and finches.

They came upon their brother seated in a little arbor, an alcove overgrown with honeysuckle and other vines. Glorfindel was by his side. Glorfindel was always by his side. A chessboard and pieces stood before them on a low table, but they had apparently lost interest in the game. Ecthelion was talking, his voice full and warm and familiar, the voice that told Erestor to sleep well and dream of a better morning when he went to bed, relating a story. Glorfindel was listening, leaning back against a pillar, his golden hair spilling across his shoulders, glowing bright. His eyes rested on Ecthelion's face as he spoke, and it was easy to see the love in this gaze, the love he bore Ecthelion. All the household knew of this love, this illicit love. It was never mentioned by anyone, least of all Ecthelion, but they knew.

Ecthelion caught sight of them, interrupted his story and smiled, waving them closer. Erestor let go of Ersinoë's hand and ran towards him, and Ecthelion caught him laughing. Seated in his lap, Erestor watched Glorfindel greet his bride-to-be. It was a credit to him that he managed it without any obvious discomfort. Ersinoё knew of the love he bore her brother, too. Erestor liked her, she was a sister to him, but sometimes he resented her for coming between Ecthelion and Glorfindel. She did not belong there, it was not her place. And least of all he understood his brother, who seemed to be the driving force behind the match. Erestor very much admired his brother, but in this respect,  he thought Ecthelion rather stupid. Did he not realize how much he was hurting Glorfindel, his best friend, by pushing him away and towards his sister? Truly, Ersinoë was a lovely maiden, and kind, and she would be a good wife to Glorfindel and a lady the House of the Golden Flower could be proud of... but she did not hold his heart, and never would.

It was obvious to anyone with eyes that Glorfindel loved Ecthelion, and only Ecthelion, and Erestor could not fault him for it. From where he stood, no one was more deserving of such a love. Erestor idolized his brother, he always had. And he liked Glorfindel, who was always cheerful and indulgent, and pitied him a little, because even as a child, Erestor knew that it is hard to love without hope...

In the trees on the other side of the narrow gorge, a nightingale began to sing. Erestor thought of Ersinoë's nightingales in their silver cage, loved and pampered little birds, but captive. Ersinoë herself had been like those birds, born into a silver cage, whence there was no escape but death. She had born her fate with patience and a gentle resignation, had never rebelled, and always followed her brother's wishes.

_And you would have married her to Glorfindel, Thel, and made them both miserable for the rest of their lives. They would have had lovely golden-haired children, and maybe named their firstborn for you, and been perfect hosts, and done all that was expected from them. And in the darkest hour of the night, they would have held each other and grieved for what they could not have._

_They were both so good, so pure of heart, and so eager to please you, always... and selfishly, you took their love, but you did not give them back what they gave you._

Still, a loveless marriage would have been infinitely preferable to Ersinoë's fate, he supposed. At least, she would have lived and seen her children, her beautiful golden-haired children, grow into beautiful golden-haired lords and ladies. She would have tended to her house and garden, and Glorfindel would have brought her birds in gilded cages that sung sweetly for her, while he dreamt of her brother.

_You were so blind, Thel, you did not wish to see. Even now, he loves you, even after dying and returning from the dead. He lost everything, but he did not lose that love for you._

There were many things Erestor admired about Glorfindel - even though he would rather bite his tongue off than admit to it now - and among them was this fierce, unwavering devotion to Ecthelion that outlasted even death... both their deaths, actually. He caught a glimpse of it, now and then, when Glorfindel remembered Gondolin and Ecthelion... and he always seemed to remember them in Erestor's presence. It was what made Erestor so uncomfortable around him. Paradoxically, it was also what made Glorfindel seek him out and pursue a friendship with him.

_Well, to be fair, the friendship might also be for my own sake. Glorfindel did always like me well as a child, and he is incapable of hiding his feelings, so I suppose he has an earnest desire to be my friend. Anything else... anything else is the shadow of Gondolin, and the echo of Ecthelion's features in my own, however faint..._

Erestor knew that there was a family resemblance between them, even though his features were softer and more finely carven than Ecthelion's, even though he had never had the strength of a warrior and had never reached his brother's height or stature. It was in the eyes, dark as onyx beneath long lashes, in the curve of his mouth and the shape of his cheekbones. It was in the iron strength of will, the determination some might call stubbornness, the fierce pride of his house. Glorfindel, ever the keen observer, saw them all and he saw Ecthelion in them. And remembered.

And loved.

Though not Erestor, not in his own right.

 _Even now, you hold him fast, brother_ , he thought _, even in death. I could never take him from you, not even if I put my mind to it. Your grip on his heart remains too strong. It is a bond that cannot be broken. I pity Alfar... he has no idea what he is up against._

_The dead are often more formidable rivals than the living... too true, and even more so, if there is a living reminder of them._

He felt some resentment towards Ecthelion, who had refused Glorfindel's love, but refused to let go of him, either. It seemed unfair, and Glorfindel deserved better.

Erestor watched him, and every now and then wondered what it would have been like to be loved by Glorfindel in his own right.

_Were it not for the abyss between us, and the burning city, and my dead brother's shadow, I might come to love you as well. Alas, fate has decreed otherwise..._

 

* * *

 

 

 _Maybe_ , Erestor thought bitterly as he stood upon the highest of the many terraces of Imladris, side by side with Celebrían and one of the envoys from Gondor, _maybe I should have paid closer attention to all those war counsels and strategy meetings. At least then it would not have come as such a nasty surprise that this is more of a siege than a battle._

Silently and unmoving, they watched columns of smoke rise in the distance. It was a fair autumn day, clear and cool, and the leaves in the gardens of Imladris were red and golden, ripe apples and pears between them.

They had heard the call of trumpets and horns at dawn, and the clatter of armor and horse's hooves. A glorious commotion of riders, archers, bannermen, stablehands, horses, warriors; and amid the chaos Glorfindel on his white horse, calm amid a troubled sea, his golden hair and silver armor gleaming in the first light.

Erestor, as was his duty, had accompanied the Lady of Imladris to see her husband off, for Elrond was to ride out with the army, just as Erestor had predicted, and against his Lady's wishes. Celebrían showed none of it in her bearing or her words, but the trembling of her voice betrayed her; she was angry at her husband, and fearful for him.

"How can he?" She had asked Erestor, who knew better than to make any reply and merely put a coat around her shoulders and led her by the arm towards the courtyard. There, he had watched their goodbyes, and added his own.

"You both disapprove, but she is better at hiding it," Glorfindel, who was also watching, had said behind him, and turning, Erestor had seen him in full armor, atop the white horse, magnificent as a warrior of old legends.

"I would wish you luck, if you needed any. You have always been exceptionally lucky." Erestor had told him, petting the horse's neck. Its white coat was smooth and soft as finest silk.

And Glorfindel had looked down at him, his blue eyes serious and the only thing alive in his pale, stern face. "Fear not."

Two words, Erestor thought, atop the terrace, staring at the columns of smoke. _Fear not._ Oh, but I do fear.

He looked at Celebrían by his side. A soft breeze stirred her fair hair, but she stood perfectly still, as if frozen. He wished to say something that would give her comfort and found nothing.

Word came with a herald late in the afternoon, word of a line of defense having been set up, and the enemy having retreated beyond it. The siege was far from over, it had only just begun, but on this first day, the omens of war looked hopeful.

Erestor did not trust them, not even when he saw Elrond return from the defenses on the third day with a group of warriors, whole and unscathed.

"What is this, then?" He asked of his Lord. "A battle, or a siege, or a bit of both?"

Elrond shrugged. "I am not sure if our enemy knows what he is about himself. He most certainly expected this to be easier. It may be an ill fated try to starve us out."

"In that case, I wish them joy," Erestor said grimly, "and patience. Our stores can hold out for many months, and they have not cut off all our supply routes."

"They do not have the strength to sit this out," Elrond said. "Not yet, not unless there are reinforcements on the way."

"Are there?"

"I do not know for sure. If there are, this is going to be a rather unpleasant winter."

He looked weary, all of a sudden, and Erestor took pity on him. "Go, and rest. I will wake you if there are any news."

Elrond nodded his thanks.

 

* * *

 

 

Out on the battlefield, Alfar found Glorfindel standing tall and silent by a dying campfire. Most of the army was resting uneasily, tense in the knowledge of the enemy's closeness. The camp was quiet, hushed. The only sounds were the steps of watchmen and the occasional snorting of the tethered horses.

"You seem troubled," Alfar noted.

Glorfindel turned to face him. "I have every reason to be," he said. "They have gotten too close for comfort. We should have ridden against them before, but we were not ready. Now we have a fight on our own doorstep."

"There are some merits to that, too. Our supplies are readily available, while they have to drag theirs here across many vast leagues of uninhabited or inimical country."

"True," Glorfindel acceded, "but they are too close, still. I have lost one home in a siege, and if there is one thing I fear above all, it is to lose a second."

"Fear of loss is not a good companion in war," Alfar said gently, stepping closer and taking his arm.

"And yet it is always there." Glorfindel was staring off into the distance. Before his mind's eye, Gondolin was burning.

"Come now," Alfar said, "your loved ones are still safe in the valley, and fate willing, they will remain safe there. Even your liege lord has returned to Imladris at your insistence, so he, too, is safe for the moment."

"My loved ones, unless you count my Lord and Lady and such friends as I have made at Imladris, are all dead," Glorfindel said bitterly. "My family, my house, my betrothed and my dearest friend are dead, and the only other survivor hates me for being the only one who came back. Do not speak to me of loss, Alfar. I know more of it than you do."

"You do, and forgive me," Alfar said. He stood very close now, and Glorfindel, even in his black mood, took comfort in it.

"I do not think Erestor hates you," Alfar added after a quiet moment.

"Maybe not. But he and I both know that he would have been happier if I had not returned."

"That is an awful thing to say and I refuse to believe it," Alfar said.

Glorfindel sighed. "You and Elrond both," he said. "You are both too kind and well-meaning to see the abyss between Erestor and me, and the burning city. And he is haunted by the shadows of the dead, they are always with him. Much as I loved Ecthelion, he cast a long shadow over his little brother."

"So," Alfar said, almost conversationally, "do you love him, then, or Ecthelion's shadow?"

Glorfindel started. "What?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You have been talking to Elrond," he accused Alfar, shaking off his arm.

Alfar shook his head. "No, I have been talking to Erestor." His booted foot drew distracted circles into the mixture of soot and soil on the ground.

" _Erestor_ told you I was in love with him?" Glorfindel asked incredulously, almost choking on the words.

Alfar smiled. His eyes were dark in the dim light, but his teeth sparked white with the smile. "No, of course not. Even though _that_ would have been a very interesting conversation. No, Erestor told me you loved Ecthelion."

"Ah." Glorfindel was at a loss for words. He could not help but wonder why Alfar took such an interest in those matters. Looking for missing pieces of the puzzle...? "Please tell me you are not planning on writing that story down, or composing an epic poem," he added faintly.

Alfar laughed. "Tempting, but your secret is safe with me. You have not answered my question, though."

"Do actually expect me to answer?"

"Yes...?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "Tomorrow morning, I will get up and tell myself that this was a dream, and that I did not discuss the contents of my heart with you on the eve of battle." He kicked a piece of glowing ember back into the fire and added in a low voice: "Erestor. It was always Erestor, never his brother's shadow." And, raising his head and fixing Alfar with a mock glare he added: "And if you dare to meddle, you may very quickly find yourself at the wrong end of my sword."

"Well, it would hardly be in my own best interest to try," Alfar said wryly, "after all, my reason for taking an interest in your impossibly tangled love life was utterly selfish. I told Erestor that it was sometimes more difficult to compete with the dead than with the living. Little did I know that I was competing with _both_ the living and the dead."

It took Glorfindel a moment to wrap his mind around that statement, and when he had unraveled it, he could not have been more surprised. "You could not have picked a somewhat more befitting time to tell me that you are interested in me, could you?" He asked, shaking his head. "I am truly flattered, Alfar. However, we are standing on a battlefield, facing a dangerous enemy, and we both love another - assuming that you do love Miruvel."

"I do," Alfar said. "There are many years of love and companionship between us, we have travelled far and wide and seen many things, great and small, happy and sad. We have raised a son and a daughter together and watched them grow and make their own way in life. Yet there have been times when she has taken a lover, or I have, and even times we spent apart. It is the nature of our bond that we do not begrudge each other these things."

"That is certainly a unique relationship," Glorfindel said, torn between astonishment and admiration.

"Yes, I am aware of how rare it is. Most couples would regard such a thing as a breach of trust."

Glorfindel briefly tried to imagine Elrond taking a lover. Celebrían would murder him in his sleep, and unblinkingly, he was sure of it.

"Have I made you uncomfortable?" Alfar asked.

Glorfindel shook his head. "No. I merely thought I had seen all forms love could take, but it turns out that I have not." And with a faint smile he added: "So - Ecthelion, Erestor, and now you. As if I did not have enough demons to torment me."

Alfar returned his smile. "I will not ask you for anything that you are not ready to give, but I had to let you know. I hope it will not harm our friendship."

"No," Glorfindel assured him, "I would not let that happen. I will ask you to go and rest, now, however, because I am counting on you to fight by my side and it would certainly harm our friendship if either of us caught an arrow tomorrow."

"That is very true," Alfar said, "and so I take my leave." He bestowed a kiss upon Glorfindel's front, not quite as brotherly as it would have been before his declaration, bowed his head and turned to leave. "Good night."

"Good night."

 

* * *

 

 

The fighting went on for days, without either side winning ground. As of yet, there were no reports of enemy reinforcements making their way towards Imladris, but Elrond and his allies were wary.

"Look on the bright side," Glorfindel tried to cheer him up when Elrond had come to his tent late one night for a strategy meeting. "At least the accursed witch-king has not shown his ugly face yet. I think he prefers to sit this one out, if he can."

"There is something at Imladris that scares him," Elrond agreed.

"Oh, I wonder who it could be," Glorfindel said, sarcasm clearly audible in his voice, "maybe the one who faced Sauron himself and lived to tell the tale?"

"Isildur slew Sauron." Elrond remarked.

"Because he got to him first, and his father's death had filled him with a desire for vengeance burning brighter than any fire."

"I thank you for the vote of confidence," Elrond said drily. "What are our losses?"

"We are up to forty-five, and I sent you all the wounded back to the Valley with Celeth. They numbered sixty, as of this afternoon.  Miruvel of the Havens took an arrow, but refused to go with them, saying that the wound was shallow. I left it up to Alfar to argue with her, but I think she wore him out. I would have been sad to see her return to the Valley, in truth, she is the best archer I have ever seen."

Elrond nodded. "I have heard our warriors speak of her in awed whispers, yes. Remind me to send my thanks to Cirdan, once all of this is over."

"How are they doing, back in the Valley?" Glorfindel asked. "It must be hard on everyone, waiting and being unable to do anything about it."

"That is the very nature of a siege," Elrond said. "They are fine. Morale is not too low, Celebrían and Firavel are seeing to that. And Erestor has kept us all well-provisioned. It seems that I have once again underestimated his ingenuity, he could not have been better prepared for this if he had planned it himself."

"I doubt that Erestor is in league with Angmar," Glorfindel said.

"Well, he is a wizard in his own right. There are secret stores of provisions, tunnels, hideouts and magazines at Imladris not even I knew about." His tone of voice was both awed and a little indignant, and Glorfindel smiled to himself. The seneschal of Imladris had bested the master of the house once again.

_Without him, Elrond would be truly lost, and he knows it. And it is a good thing that Erestor is loyal to a fault. He could rule Imladris, if he chose._

He never would, though. As far as Glorfindel could tell, Erestor was perfectly content with his role in the household. Erestor owed Elrond everything, and he paid his debt with unwavering devotion both to Elrond and to Imladris.

"Erestor has seen one city burn," Glorfindel said quietly, "and once he has lost all he had. You may be assured that he will do everything in his considerable power to never let it happen again." He paused and changed the subject. "How fares Celebrían?"

"She believes I am taking unnecessary risks."

"She is right," Glorfindel said. "I understand why you do it, though. You would never be content to sit back and watch while others fight your war for you."

Elrond looked truly pained. "I know she is fearful for me, but you are right, I cannot stand by and watch, not when everything I built and everything I love is at stake."

Glorfindel nodded. "I understand. Though you should also know that each of us here is fighting for the same things you are, our home and our loved ones. That is why we are ultimately going to win this war, because we have everything to lose if we do not, and that spurs every one of us." He looked at Elrond, long and steadily. "You inspire loyalty, Elrond, even in those like Alfar or Celeth who are sworn to another. You built Imladris, and it is a place we all love and will not see perish."

"Thank you," Elrond said simply. "Even though it should be me delivering uplifting speeches to my warriors, not the other way around."

"We can keep it between the two of us," Glorfindel suggested with a wink. "Now go back to Imladris, my lord, and give my regards to Lady Celebrían. She sent me a rose with a courier two days ago, did you know? I was very touched." He smiled.

"She is as fond of you as I am," Elrond said. "And I have a suspicion she knows that you would have rather had roses sent to you by someone else, but while he is oblivious to that, she thought it a nice gesture."

"Valar!" Glorfindel exclaimed. "Does _everyone_ know?"

"It might not have reached the ears of the witch-king," Elrond said with a sly grin. "Yet."

Glorfindel shook his head, muttering. "Well, so long as no one tells Erestor and embarrasses him with it, I am content."

"We would never do that to you," Elrond said earnestly, "besides, he thinks you are otherwise engaged."

"Well, I do have a war on my hands," Glorfindel said drily.

"I was speaking of Alfar."

"There is nothing there."

"If you say so."

"I refuse to have this conversation with you," Glorfindel said squarely, "it is worse than talking to my mother."

Elrond laughed, and they went apart with their hearts a little lightened.

 

* * *

 

 

The siege took a turn for the worse as the days grew colder. One very early morning - the stars were still up in the sky, weary and pale and mists rose in the Valley - Erestor came upon a breathless herald in the courtyard. His brave horse was steaming with the heat of a sharp gallop and he himself was pale with exhaustion.

The guards and the two or three other members of the household that were already up rushed towards them.

"What news?" Erestor asked, holding the stallion's reins, as the rider caught his breath. "It is as we feared," he cried out, " enemy reinforcements are on their way and will arrive within a few hours."

 _This is what is so discouraging about a siege_ , Erestor thought, _you know that something bad is coming, you may even see it coming, and there is nothing you can do to avert it._

"Is their number known?" He asked, trying to project calm and confidence. He knew that he was being watched by anxious eyes, and it would not do to appear panicked.

The rider shook his head. "There are only guesses, but they are many."

"You will have to do better than that when Elrond asks you this question," Erestor told him. "Come now. I will take you to him."

Elrond was not yet up, but the Lady Celebrían was seated at her dressing table, brushing out her long hair. It fell in soft, golden waves down her shoulders, light against the dark red of her dress. At their knock and entrance, she turned, and almost brushed the small bronze lamp off her dressing table with a wayward hand.

"Erestor," she said, astonished, "at this hour...? Is aught amiss?" She rose from the low stool she had been sitting on, smoothing folds out of her dress.

"My lady, please accept my apologies for the intrusion," Erestor replied with a bow of his head, "there are grave news."

She paled a little, but stood up firm and resolute. "Wait here," she told him, "I will wake my husband."

Little later, she returned with Elrond by her side, looking careworn and grim. He made the messenger give a full report, asking many and detailed questions, before he turned to his wife and Erestor, saying: "I will ride out, and take with me any who are able to fight, and I need you to send swift word to Lothlorien, we may be in need of their help."

"Of course," Celebrían said, her face very pale now, but her voice strong and unwavering. "I will see to it right away."

"What would you have me do?" Erestor asked with forced calm. Celebrían's composure put him to shame, and it was she who stood to watch her husband ride into battle against a stronger foe. A husband she loved deeply, and for whom she had left her home and her people to come to live at Imladris, a place now in danger. He could not help but admire her.

"Ready yourself for the worst," Elrond replied grimly, "and let us hope it does not come to pass."

The servant he had sent for his armor and weapons returned, and helped him to don them, and with him came Celeth, Celebrían's faithful guard, who had risen to the rank of a lieutenant to Glorfindel. He had, Erestor knew, barely recovered from a wound inflicted upon him by an enemy arrow. Elrond spoke to him in a low voice, while his servant helped him into the armor.

Erestor met Celebrían's gaze, and they found a mutual understanding in each other's eyes, the quiet despair of those left behind to helplessly sit out the siege that would decide their fate.

She stepped to Elrond's side, taking his sword belt from the servant's hands and wordlessly girding him with it. Elrond looked down at her slender, long-fingered hands, and when she was done caught them in his own, kissing them wordlessly. Erestor turned his gaze away. To see his best friend and liege lord take leave of his wife - and maybe for the last time - filled his heard with an unknown grief.

_Would that I could spare them both this heartbreak!_

He looked at Celeth, clad in armor and waiting, and thought of the bard Firavel, who would be weeping for him if he did not return.

_And I shall remain here, with the women and the children, whom I can give no comfort and spare not the pain and fear of knowing their loved ones in battle... maybe it would be easier to be out in the field, but some of us must needs stay behind and I would be little use there._

He was startled out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder and looked up into Elrond's harrowed face. "Erestor, my friend. I am sorry to leave you in this position, and with the memories of another siege haunting your dreams still. But there is no one I would trust more, and I know that if the worst comes to pass, you will do whatever is in your power to secure the survival of those left behind. Take them to Lorien, if you can, to safety. Do not turn to look back, and even if Imladris is burned and destroyed."

Tears stung in his eyes, and he blinked one away. "I will," he promised, there was nothing else to do.

Elrond nodded and let go of him, turning to leave. Celeth, the messenger and the servant followed him, and Erestor was left alone with Celebrían, who sank back onto the stool by her dressing table and buried her face in her hands.

"What will become of us?" she whispered.

Erestor crossed the room and went to one knee by her side, taking her cold hand. Her hair fell like a golden curtain, hiding her face.

"Have faith in your husband and his people, lady," he said, and unbidden, his thoughts flew to the warriors out on the open field, to Felas and Tharand and young Gimbar, Halen's eldest son, to Alfar and his companion Miruvel, to Celeth's Galadrim and to Glorfindel.

 _I have faith in you, Balrog slayer,_ Erestor thought, _do not let this second home of ours, this last refuge, fall._

And in the quiet of his mind it seemed as if Glorfindel replied. _I will not. This I pledge to you. Fear not._

Erestor started, wide-eyed at the sudden contact.

Celebrían looked up, alarmed. "What is it?" She asked.

Erestor shook his head. "I thought... I thought I heard Glorfindel's voice, but it cannot be..."

She brushed the hair out of her face, and earnestly asked: "And whyever not, Erestor? The hour is grave indeed, and when I am alone in times of need, I sometimes hear my mother speak to me, or my father or even Elrond. And there is a connection between you and Glorfindel running very deep and spanning ages, why would you not hear him answer you? What did you ask?"

"I asked him not to fail us," Erestor said, still shaken. "He promised he would not."

"That is so very much like Glorfindel, it cannot have been an illusion." Her smile was watery, but it gladdened him. "But I have never known him to break a promise."

Erestor shook his head. "Nor have I."

She gave his hand a soft squeeze. "Come now," she said, "let us do what we may while we wait for news from the battlefield."

"I wish I had your mother's mirror," Erestor said as he helped her up and took her arm.

"No, for it is a dangerous thing, that mirror," Celebrían disagreed. "It shows the future, but it only shows you glimpses, and leaves you to worry about their meaning. It does not put your mind at ease, it only darkens your dreams."

"Have you ever looked into it?"

Her face was grave, her eyes dark with memory. "Once. And I wish to this day that I had not."

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel's white steed was trembling like reed in a storm, its silken coat splattered and matted with blood. It had seen men die and horses, quickly or in agonizing pains, friend and foe alike, and all around it the battle raged on, blurred into a mesh of bodies and mud and gore.

He kept his eyes on Elrond, who was fighting close by, cutting through the enemy lines with deadly speed and precision, never tiring, his arm and mind steeled by many battles. Glorfindel was sworn to protect his lord, but it did not look as if Elrond was in need of any protection.

Grimly, they pressed on, though the enemy's might was far greater than theirs. Forward was the only way to go, or all they had built, all they were fighting for, would be lost.

Was Elrond thinking of his wife, his beautiful lady whom he had loved for so long before finally taking heart and confessing to it? Was he thinking of his children, waiting to be born? Of the beautiful homestead he had built out of nothing in a sheltered green valley, to accommodate all those in search of a peaceful, hospitable place to stay and thrive in?

 _I swore to defend and guard the heirs of E_ _ärendil, but I am just as much fighting for Imladris as for Elrond,_ Glorfindel thought. _I would not lose another home. Ever._

 _Do not let this second home of ours, this last refuge, fall._ He heard Erestor's voice in his mind still, and his own echoing pledge. It gave him courage, he drew strength from despair, and maybe they all did, that day, amid the blood and death surrounding them, with the screams of friend and foe filling their ears.

No one kept counting the hours, but when the new day broke, dawn found them on the battlefield still, exhausted beyond words, and with their enemies retreating. The white horse had died in terrible twisting cramps with a lance stuck in its belly, and it now lay somewhere behind him, a pale spot upon the muddied plain.

Glorfindel fought on foot, and he did not remember how long he had been fighting so, when finally, horns announced the enemy's retreat, and they watched the ragged remains of the formidable force that had set out to besiege Imladris stumble away across the field, towards the ridges of hills and uncertain cover.

"We cannot pursue them," Elrond told him after a cursory look about.

Glorfindel nodded, too exhausted for words. There was a throbbing gash running down his right thigh, and a blade had struck hard against his ribcage from the other side, leaving uncertain damage.

He called the two remaining heralds and had them blow their horns for reassembly.

"Now let us see how many we have left," he said, half to himself. "Your healers will be busy, Elrond."

"I can only hope so," Elrond said, wiping his sword on his cloak and sheathing it. "I can only hope that there are many more to heal than to bury."

"Glorfindel," Celeth appeared by his side, looking weary. There was an ugly cut on his cheek that looked as if it had almost cost him an eye. "We prevailed." He sounded astonished by his own words.

Glorfindel clasped his shoulder. "Yes, we have. Are you well enough to carry the news back to the Valley? Tell them to make room for the wounded... and the dead."

Celeth nodded.

Glorfindel looked about, into weary faces, too tired to show much joy or grief yet. He counted heads and found his worst fears averted. They had lost many, but not nearly as many as he had thought.

Here was Gimbar, whom he had trained since he had been little more than a boy, and many others of his students who had just fought their first battle, and hopefully their last for a long time to come. Here was Miruvel, her bow slung over her shoulder, and steadfast Tharand, supporting his injured brother. Alfar caught him in a brief, strong hug, that spoke of the joy of being alive more than of anything else.

"Let us go home," Glorfindel told them all, "we have earned ourselves some rest."

A few chuckles rose at that, and then they all set out to gather their wounded and bring them home. They brought the dead back to the Valley, too, laying them upon low pallets in the Hall of Fires, and there were many, too many of them.

Glorfindel walked between them, their pallid faces frozen in an unnatural sleep. Silently, grieving survivors moved from one to the other, closing their eyes and arraying them for their funeral.

So many, too many.

He saw Celebrían and two of her ladies, come to pay their last respects to the fallen, and little Mirún with an arm full of white flowers, earnestly spreading them across the room. "One for each of them," she told him, and he felt his throat constrict.

"Glorfindel." A familiar presence by his side, a gentle reprimand: "You should not be here, but in the healing ward. Will you at least let me look at your wounds?"

He turned to look at Erestor, alive and well and unreal among the cold presence of the dead. There were purple shadows beneath his eyes, and someone else's blood stained his white tunic, but he was still the loveliest sight Glorfindel had ever seen.

He nodded, and Erestor led him away, to where he did not care, and made him sit and helped him out of armor and cloak, hissing softly at the sight of the bloody flesh wound on his thigh. "This will hurt," he warned.

"Not so much," Glorfindel said, looking down upon his dark locks, "I have had worse." He grit his teeth and let Erestor do his work, cleaning and treating the wound, and bandaging it at last.

"Elrond trained you as a healer." He had not known it before.

"Elrond taught me many things," Erestor said ambiguously. "Take your shirt off."

"Remind me to thank him later," Glorfindel said tiredly, struggling out of his shirt, or rather, what remained of it.

Erestor gasped and when he looked down, Glorfindel saw why - his left side was bruised and bloodied almost beyond recognition.

"How did you fight with that?" Erestor asked, shaking his head.

"The need was great." Glorfindel winced as cool fingers ran over the bruised flesh.

"Well, the blood at least is from superficial scratches, nothing deep, but you will likely be black and blue for days and after that go through several interesting shades of green and yellow," Erestor said.

"At least my head is still attached to my shoulders," Glorfindel countered with wry humor.

Erestor paused, his hands still at Glorfindel's side and his expression deadly serious. "It is no laughing matter." And he resumed his ministrations a little more forcefully than necessary.

"You could have simply said that you were glad to see me alive," Glorfindel complained.

Once again, Erestor paused to look at him. A long moment passed between them, with no other sound but their breathing breaking the stillness. "I am," Erestor finally said, before he looked down and resumed his work.

"There you go," he said, when he was done. "Now rest. Sleep will bring healing, as it always does."

He made Glorfindel lay down on the bed and handed him a blanket, and then lingered a moment, looking down at him. "Thank you," he said softly.

"For what?" Glorfindel asked.

"For saving my home," Erestor replied, "and many of the people I have grown to love. Celebrían was right, you never break a promise."

"I owe you," Glorfindel muttered sleepily. Exhaustion was threatening to overwhelm him, now that he felt safe enough to give in to it.

Erestor shook his head. "You never really owed me anything, and if there was ever a debt between us, it is fully paid by now. Rest now. And may you wake to a better morning."

Glorfindel smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

He woke to the smell of flowers and a child's giggle, and when he opened his eyes, a small crowd was gathered around him, and someone stuck a yellow rose into his face.

"Mirún, no," Leliand chastised her daughter, "be gentle."

"Wake-up, Glorfindel," Mirún said, "look, I brought you a rose! I got stung four times, but I brought it just for you, because you were so brave and saved us all. And Galreäd made cakes for everybody. He made some for you, too, and Erestor said that no one was allowed to eat them and that he would feed us to the wolves if we tried."

Some of the adults chuckled. Glorfindel looked about and found Elrond and Celebrían to his left, and Firavel next to them, Celeth's hand on her shoulder, and Galreäd with the aforementioned cakes by his other side, between Leliand and Limre. Erestor, finally, sat on the edge of the bed, another elfling in his lap, one of Galreäd's daughters, Glorfindel thought. His expression was unexpectedly tender.

Glorfindel remembered him in the Hall of Fires, wearing bloodstained clothes and coming to treat his wounds. He remembered being led back to his rooms, their quiet conversation, the gentleness in Erestor's touch, a healer's touch, but intimate still, the same gentleness that was in his expression now. There was a gladness there, too, a quiet happiness at seeing him alive and well, one that was reflected in the face of everyone surrounding him. Elrond, Celebrían, Leliand, Galreäd... they all wore their feelings out in the open today, and they all were glad.

 _Home_ , he thought. _Home is not a place built of stone and wood. Home is wherever someone loves and cares and would miss you if you were gone._ Gondolin had not been his home because of his birth, but because of the people who had loved him and whom he had loved there. Likewise, Imladris was not his home because he had been sent here; it was his home because Elrond and all the other members of the household had welcomed him into their midst... even Erestor, at last.

Glorfindel felt overwhelmed. "I love you,", he said, and for a moment there was an awkward silence, until Celebrían took pity on him and replied: "We know, Glorfindel. We love you, too."

The corners of Elrond's mouth twitched, but other than that, no one gave any acknowledgement of the fact that they had understood the statement to be aimed at one of them in particular. Glorfindel blushed slightly.

"Glorfindel, you would not let Erestor feed me to the wolves, even if I ate your cakes, would you?" Mirún asked, looking at him expectantly.

"Well," Glorfindel pretended to consider this. "No, probably not," he said. And, looking at Erestor he added: "But I appreciate the gesture."

"Oh, hush," Erestor said, looking somewhat embarrassed. "As if I would do such a thing."

"Well, you did lock me into the wine cellar once, when I was a child," Limre noted. "And I still think you did it on purpose because you were mad at me for sneaking into your study and stealing your seal."

Glorfindel laughed.

"That was a foolish thing to do," Erestor told Limre, glowering at her.

Glorfindel took one of the cakes Galreäd offered him and looked at the assembly. "Are you all going to watch me eat?" He asked, amused.

"We just wanted to make sure you were alright," Firavel said.

He smiled at her.

"Come," Leliand said to her daughter, "let us leave Glorfindel in peace. There are many things left to do about the house." She led Mirún out of the room, and Limre followed them, together with Firavel and Celeth, and Galreäd, who plucked his daughter from Erestor's lap and carried her on his hip. Finally, only Elrond, Celebrían and Erestor were left.

"I came to look at your wounds, but Erestor did all my work for me," Elrond said. "I recommend you to his care. But I also wanted to thank you."

"There is no need," Glorfindel assured him. "You are my liege lord, and Imladris is my home."

"I am glad of both," Elrond said with a smile.

"It is good to see you awake and well, Glorfindel," Celebrían added, "and I would add my thanks, also. It gladdens my heart to know that you are watching over my husband, and I would always know you by his side in battle."

"I will always be," Glorfindel assured her, "though I do hope that the next battle will not come so soon."

"So do I," she said.

"Take your time to recover," Elrond said, "if I see you upon horseback or with a sword or bow in hand anytime within the next few days, I will be wroth, Glorfindel, and I will not hesitate to set Erestor upon you. Knowing him, nothing would please him more than to snap his fingers at you and lock you in the wine cellar if you misbehave."

"Would you?" Glorfindel asked Erestor, grinning.

"No, Glorfindel," Erestor said sweetly, "but I might lock you into your rooms and post guards at your door, so take care."

Elrond and Celebrían laughed.

"I did you a favor, then," Glorfindel protested.

"Of course," Erestor said, a gleam in his dark eyes, "and it would only be natural for me to repay you in kind, no?"

 

* * *

 

 

No one was in the mood for much celebration, as too many members of the household had fallen in the battle, but they put all their efforts into rebuilding what had been lost. There was much healing to be done, and there were also goodbyes as their allies from Lothlorien and from the Havens left to return home.

Alfar drew Glorfindel aside before he and his company left the Valley.

"Promise me one thing," he said, "when we see each other next, and hopefully under lighter circumstances, either give me a chance, or tell Erestor how you feel. Life is too precious to be spent alone."

Glorfindel hugged him. "I cannot promise you anything. At least not when it comes to him. But you are welcome to shower me in compliments and flowers whenever you feel like it."

"Fool," Alfar huffed. "Take care. I will find an excuse to return to Imladris ere long."

"No doubt," Glorfindel agreed.

Miruvel handed him a bow. "This is for you," she said solemnly, "you earned it. Use it well."

"I will," he promised, "thank you."

Glorfindel watched them ride out of the Valley, feeling a little melancholy. He liked Alfar. Maybe not in the way that Alfar liked _him_ , but he had found a dear friend in the elf from the Havens.

He turned back towards the house and went to find Erestor in his study.

"Alfar and his company are gone," he announced.

"Oh?" Erestor asked, shuffling papers.

"You could at least _pretend_ to care. They were good company, and trusty allies," Glorfindel complained.

Erestor looked up. "I will not argue that."

Glorfindel merely kept looking at him, until Erestor sighed. "You are aware of the fact that I know you know of my... conversation with him, before the siege...?"

It came as a surprise, although it probably should not have. He rolled his eyes. "Is there anything in this house that escapes your notice?" He would have given his marvelous new bow to know how Erestor felt about Alfar's interest.

"Not much," Erestor conceded. He was toying with a long-feathered quill; it could have been a sign of anything from boredom to embarrassment. Trying to read Erestor was frustrating at best, and Glorfindel had spent _years_ observing him.

"I am surprised you talked to him at all," he said, unable to hide all of his indignance. "Why talk to Alfar of Ecthelion, when you refuse to talk to me?"

"He is a stranger, it was easier," Erestor replied, looking down at his hands. They were quite still now, grasping the quill. "I knew I would not have to face him every day for the rest of my life. Besides, he argued his point convincingly."

Glorfindel coughed. "And I do not?" _Really, Erestor...?_

"Ah, Glorfindel," Erestor said, sounding resigned, "do you not think that if I thought I could face it, I would speak to you of Gondolin and of my brother...?"

"You could try," Glorfindel suggested, leaning forward. "It would mean a lot to me."

"I know," Erestor whispered.

Time passed between them, and silence, until Glorfindel, ever the more impatient of the two, could take no more of it. He came around the table and stood next to Erestor looking down at him.

"Why," he asked, "are you so terribly afraid of facing those memories? _Nothing_ scares you, Erestor, and there is no task too demanding for you. Why this?"

"I spent years trying to forget." He held Glorfindel's gaze.

"I know."

"And then _you_ came along."

"I would say I am sorry, but I hate lying to you," Glorfindel said drily.

"You once said you were sorry," Erestor reminded him. "You said you wished that my brother had been sent back in your stead."

He had said that. However... "That was before..."

"Before...?" Erestor asked.

_Before I found you, truly found you, and fell in love with you. Before I realized that this was more than a game of memories, more than a duty to Ecthelion's younger brother, more than an infatuation, more than the faint echo of him in your features..._

"Before what?" Erestor persisted.

Glorfindel shook his head. "I am not sorry to be here. I do wish Ecthelion could be here, too, for your sake..."

"For my sake?" Erestor echoed. "Not for yours? You loved him dearly."

"We both did."

"Yes, well, my love for him was perhaps a little more innocent and less ardent than yours." It was impossible to tell if the undertone in his voice was ironic or mocking.

"Maybe," Glorfindel conceded, "but no less sincere. The House of the Fountain took you in, but Ecthelion raised you and gave you a home. He was as much a parent to you as a brother and protector."

"Well," Erestor said, "it might be slightly awkward if he were here right now. He would neither approve of your relationship with Alfar, nor of whatever tangled bond it is that binds the two of us. Ecthelion liked simple, straightforward solutions. That was perhaps his only flaw. He thought marrying you to Ersinoë would be a splendid way to unite your houses, when in truth, it would have made both his sister and his best friend and closest companion utterly miserable. And you would both have entered into that ill-fated match smilingly, because neither of you could deny him anything; you loved him too much to disappoint."

"I did like Ersinoë," Glorfindel protested.

"In about the same way you liked me - the indulgent way an adult likes a child or a lord an inferior. You never were particularly good at masking or changing your feelings." Erestor shook his head. "You would not have been a good husband to Ersinoë. You had little love and no respect for her, and we have both seen the outcome of relationships grounded on _that_. King Thranduil's marriage is a splendid example. His wife loathes him, and he ignores her. And you of all people should know to what despair a failed bond may lead."

Glorfindel had a bad feeling about the direction this conversation was headed.

"Should I...?" He asked.

"Your parents..."

"You never knew my parents," Glorfindel cut him off harshly. "They perished before you were even born."

"And yet everyone in Gondolin knew their story," Erestor said softly.

"Why are you bringing this up now?" Glorfindel asked, as much hurt as surprised.

"Not to torment you," Erestor's eyes were sincere. "I know it must pain you still. You must have loved them both, and especially your mother..."

Glorfindel's hands clenched the backrest of Erestor's high chair tightly. _Mother... no. I do not wish to remember that... not the way she perished..._

_Her long, golden hair, soft as silk between his fingers. He swipes it to the side, exposing her neck, pale and swanlike, beautiful. A crystal necklace sparkling in the lamplight... her laughter, low and only for him, she never laughs like this for anyone else, never is this unguarded and silly with anyone else but her son... her beloved son, her only child, her one-and-all. She asks him to comb her hair for her, her beautiful golden hair, so much like his... their faces in the mirror, side by side, so close, so similar. Images of each other, mother and son, cast in the same mold, male and female copy of the same being, it seems. Nothing comes ever between them, there is no space for his father between them, not even in looks he resembles him... it is all Mother, always... and she is jealous of his affection, his time, his feelings... she dislikes Ecthelion for the same reason she dislikes all of his companions, but more so, because she has looked into his heart and seen the budding flower of love, a love deep and true enough to threaten her... he is aware of her watchful gaze from a high balcony or a window, whenever he rides out with Ecthelion, or trains with him in the yard... but how can he blame her for loving him...? She is his mother. It is not wrong... it could not be wrong..._

"I could not help her." His voice trembled slightly. "In the end, no one could. A sickness had befallen her, a sickness of the mind, and one that could not be healed... she had been so beautiful, and in the end, even that turned to ashes... I watched them lead her away, there was so much blood, on her hands, half-dried, and on her gown and even in her hair..." He saw the images in front of him now, saw the reddish-brown stains, tainting her. Saw her struggle in the iron grip of the guards, spitting and mad and unlike the kind, beautiful woman he had known all his life, the noble lady, the caring mother... all gone.

Erestor took one of his hands, pried it loose from the wood, held it.

"They took her away, and I never saw her again. It was Ecthelion who came to me and told me that they had let her die by offering her a cup of poisoned wine... and she drank it. It was her choice, the only choice she had left. I never saw her again... and when Ecthelion told me, that was the only moment I ever truly hated him. It was compassion on his part, to not let me hear it from a stranger's lips, but still I hated him for it."

"You need not be ashamed of that. We are not in control of our deep feelings, and especially not in such hours of grief and despair. I am sure he did not think ill of you for it."

"But why would you speak of my mother now...?" Glorfindel said, half to himself.

Erestor withdrew his hand. "We were speaking of the imprudence of feelings and the damage they may do, both if they are acted upon or against, were we not? Maybe it was better not to feel anything at all, than to fall into such despair... but if a feeling is too intense to be fought, any attempt to do so may end in disaster."

Glorfindel had been too preoccupied by memories of his mother to catch on to the deeper message Erestor was trying to communicate, but he understood it now. "This is no coincidence," he said slowly, "you are trying to tell me something, and you began to do so when you told me you knew I had spoken to Alfar."

"Yes, indeed," Erestor said with a sigh.

"You know." Glorfindel stated.

_Does everyone know...? - It may not have reached the ears of the witch-king yet..._

Erestor's voice was gentle when he replied: "I told you; you were never very good at masking your true feelings."

"Since when...?" Glorfindel asked. His heart was beating in his throat now, threatening to choke him.

A furtive smile that did not truly answer his question, but what else could he have expected?

"And what are you trying to tell me, then?"

Once more Erestor sighed. "Only that I am afraid. For you, and for myself."

Glorfindel felt the urge to laugh, a harsh, mirthless laugh, a laugh that spoke of the absurdity of this all, of this entire conversation and their situation, but held back.

"I wish you were a better liar," he said instead.

"As do I," Erestor replied. "I would have preferred to pretend that I was oblivious to it all, but Alfar's confession forced me to admit that I was not. He is very troublesome, your friend from the Havens."

Glorfindel had to smile despite himself. "Ay, what a tangled web." He took a step behind the chair and buried his hands in Erestor's loose dark hair, knowing that the other would let him, as he had in the past. Erestor was particular about his hair, but he let Glorfindel touch it. No one else, surprisingly. Glorfindel ran the dark strands through his fingers, contemplating. "I used to comb her hair for her," he said, thinking of his mother. "She enjoyed having someone else do it, much as you do."

"I am not sure if that comparison makes me feel better, Glorfindel," Erestor said. "Knowing of your complicated relationship with your mother..."

"I have never had a simple relationship with anyone, come to think of it," Glorfindel mused. "Why should you be any different?"

"Why indeed," Erestor muttered. "You will not say it, will you?"

"No," Glorfindel said, his arms coming around both Erestor and the chair, resting his chin on the other's shoulder. "No, I will not. I fear rejection as much as anyone else and you made it clear that you do not have an answer yet. Or at least not one I would like to hear."

"You might have to wait a long time for that," Erestor warned.

"I have already waited a long time," Glorfindel said. Somehow it was a relief to finally have his feelings out in the open and known, even if they had not been explicitly stated. "As long as there is hope, I will wait. As long as you let me close and do not avoid or despise me, I am content."

"Is the fact that you have both your arms around me and that I am not kicking and screaming indication enough of my not despising you?" Erestor asked drily. "I have not let anyone as close as you are now in a long, long time. And now enough of this, we both have duties to perform. The household does not run itself, and you have a dozen wounded warriors waiting for your visit."

"And a new horse to train," Glorfindel said glumly, releasing him and straightening.

"Have you chosen one already?" Erestor asked. There were many fine horses in Elrond's stables, but he knew that Glorfindel had taken the loss of his white steed very hard.

"No." Glorfindel sighed. "I hate that part. You grow so fond of them, and then suddenly, they are gone."

"I would offer you mine, but she is not suited to you," Erestor said. "For a start, she has the wrong color. And she is swift, but no war horse."

"I thank you for the offer, anyway. Come to think of it, I have never seen you on horseback. Not here, anyway." Glorfindel looked at him curiously.

"That could be remedied. Train your new horse, and I will ride with you, or race you, or whatever it is you do for sports. If I remember correctly, it was you who lifted me into the saddle of my first pony. It was a fat, stubborn little beast and I was wroth that I could not ride a fine, thoroughbred stallion like you and Ecthelion." He smiled at the memory.

Glorfindel returned his smile.

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, Glorfindel got his chance to see Erestor on horseback sooner than either of them had expected. One cold winter morning, Elrond called Erestor to his study.

"I have something to ask of you," he said.

"Ask away, my lord."

Elrond smiled faintly. "I would have you accompany Lady Celebrían on a visit to her kin in Lothlorien. Her mother and father are anxious to see her, they are very glad that she got through the siege unharmed. I believe, Celebrían also has some private matters to discuss with her mother, things that she does not share with me."

Erestor was more than surprised to hear that, he had not thought that there were any secrets between Elrond and his wife.

Elrond, it appeared, caught his skeptical look. "There are some things that a daughter can only share with her mother, woman to woman, but not with her father or even her husband," he said. "There are some mysteries that - having been born as men - we will never understand, no matter how wise we may grow to be."

Erestor nodded his acknowledgement. He supposed there was some truth to Elrond's words, but he also had an inkling as to what Celebrían wished to discuss with her mother. The lack of an heir to Imladris after years of marriage - and an exceptionally happy marriage at that - had already been noted. Elrond might choose to feign ignorance of the matter, or maybe he was simply not concerned, but Erestor, who knew everything that passed within the walls of Imladris, had already heard curious whispers.

"I will gladly accompany my lady to Lothlorien," he said, even though a winter voyage through a country recently ravaged by war was not his idea of a pleasure trip. "And may I suggest a large escort? Not only will it befit the Lady of Imladris and a daughter of the Golden Wood, but there may also be some scattered groups of foes still about, roaming the country."

"I agree," Elrond said, "which is why I am sending Glorfindel and a squadron of our best archers and swordsmen with you."

"Glorfindel?" Erestor asked, genuinely surprised by the choice, even though he probably should not have been. "Is that wise? He has scarcely recovered from his injuries." In fact, it had only been a few days since Elrond had lifted his ban and allowed Glorfindel to return to his weapons and the training grounds - and in Erestor's opinion, that decision was due more to Glorfindel's complaints and constant restless wandering than to the rate of his recovery.

"He would raise havoc if I made him stay here, Celebrían is dear to him, and he has his own pride... besides, there is no one that I would trust more to keep her from harm." He looked up, eyeing Erestor shrewdly. "Is that concern for him, Erestor?"

 _Snap, and the mousetrap shut. I walked right into that ambush..._ Erestor feigned indifference, it was the only thing to do. "I would rather know that the hand that shields me is strong enough to hold a sword," he said.

"You have always been an exceptionally bad liar," Elrond said, looking as pleased as a cat in front of a pot of cream.

"Whereas you, my friend, have a rare passion for meddling in other people's lives," Erestor countered, amused. He knew that Elrond meant well, so he took no affront at this invasion of his privacy.

"I would see you happy," Elrond said gently. The sincerity of his gaze was enough to give anyone a bad conscience.

"I am happy," Erestor assured him. "Truth be told, the prospect of a long ride through snow and wilderness does not exactly thrill me, but other than that, I have nothing to complain of. I look forward to meeting Lady Galadriel again, and to staying in Lothlorien."

"Maybe so," Elrond said, apparently unimpressed, "and the fact that you sent to Lindon for a pure-white steed is, of course, pure coincidence."

 _I knew that horse would cause me trouble. It was a foolish thought, but it seems that just as Elrond, I am not immune to Glorfindel's mournful looks._ "We lost a number of horses during the siege," Erestor said complacently, "I thought it best to replace them. I suppose you do not want our warriors to walk into their next battle. And yes, I may have asked for a white one, while I was at it."

"Well, they arrived last night," Elrond said, "and there is a white mare among them, with a coat gleaming like silver and light-footed as a dancer. If you do not intend to give her to Glorfindel, I will. Though he might appreciate the gift more, if it came from you."

"A horse is a horse," Erestor said, unwilling to admit defeat. It was a game between them, and they had played at it often enough.

Elrond sighed in exasperation. "And a rose is just a rose. You are terribly stubborn. Get ready for departure in a fortnight and do give that horse which is just a horse to the man you pretend not to care about. He more than deserves it."

That he could not argue. _Yes, he does._

 

* * *

 

 

As his lieutenants made the final arrangements for their departure, Glorfindel was watching from the top of the staircase leading down into the courtyard. He had asked for his horse to be saddled and groomed and led to him, or rather not _his_ horse, but the one that was standing in for his lost steed. He wondered what took the grooms so long, but was presently distracted by Erestor stepping to his side. "So," he said, "shall you ride with me, Glorfindel?"

"As soon as they find me a horse," Glorfindel replied moodily.

"Have you not chosen one already?" Erestor asked. "How about this one?" He raised a hand and waved it towards the far end of the courtyard, where a groom had just emerged, leading two horses. One was rather unremarkable, though well bred, with a dark brown coat, while the other... Glorfindel drew in a sharp breath. It - _she_ \- was beautiful. In the early morning sunlight, her coat was pure silver and she held her head high, proud and alert, obviously curious of her surroundings.

"I took the liberty of having a new saddle fitted for you," Erestor's voice called him from his reverie, but he could not quite tear his eyes off the white horse.

"Thank you," he said absentmindedly. The groom had brought the horses to stand still in the middle of the yard, awaiting their riders.

"Shall we?" Erestor asked.

And finally, the full meaning of his words registered. Glorfindel whirled about to look at him, feeling stunned. "Wait. You are giving me a horse?"

Erestor smiled. "Well observed. Come along now."

Glorfindel did not move an inch. "You are giving me a horse," he repeated, slower this time.

"To complement the rosebush, though I'm afraid they do not go very well with each other," Erestor said, sounding faintly exasperated.

"Why?" Glorfindel asked. Like Erestor's first gift, this one had come unexpectedly and he had no idea what it meant.

"Quoting Elrond: You deserve it. And maybe I wanted to relive some of my childhood memories from Gondolin and see the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower ride out on his white steed again. Only this time, with the younger brother by his side, not the elder." Erestor's dark eyes held his gaze for a moment, and could have held it for an eternity, had he not turned away. It would have been time to gracefully express his thanks for the generous gift, but he found that he had no words to describe what he felt.

Grateful, yes, he was grateful, but there was also a melancholy sadness in the picture Erestor had evoked. He felt wild joy and excitement at the thought of riding the white steed into the wilderness that surrounded Imladris, and a subtler form of enjoyment at the thought that Erestor would be there with him to see and to share the moment.

There was also mirth, threading itself through the other emotions like a shimmering ribbon of gold.

"Pray, what did Elrond have to say when he learnt that you were going to present me with a horse?" he asked.

Erestor groaned softly. "A great deal, and little of use," he admitted. "I will never hear the end of it, I fear."

"Erestor," Glorfindel replied, chuckling softly, "if in all the years of your acquaintance you have not learnt that Elrond wishes for you to find a companion and will do anything to help you in that, you do not know him very well. And if you continue to present me with traditional gifts of courtship you will make Elrond very happy... which will do nothing to keep him from teasing you mercilessly, of course."

"Elrond is too fond of meddling in the lives of others." Erestor had turned his face away, but Glorfindel was sure that his words had not left him unmoved.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite the cold, their ride was pleasant enough. Glorfindel sent out scouts to secure that the road was safe and accessible, and where there was no road, he had them find the best route through the untrodden wilderness.

It was close to midwinter, and there was snow on the ground, but the weather was clear and sunny. Lady Celebrían, who was as graceful and implacable on horseback as on her own two feet, visibly enjoyed the voyage. She was looking forward to the Golden Wood, home of her childhood, and to meeting her parents.

"My mother shall be glad to see you again," she told Erestor. "She is very fond of you."

Erestor inclined his head. "It is always a pleasure to meet the Lady of the Golden Wood," he replied formally.

_Well... most of the time. When she is not experiencing one of her moments of precognition and revealing what you never wanted to learn of yourself and your future._

He had been a guest in Lothlorien for a time before traveling to Imladris at the Lady's suggestion. It had been a time of rest and respite, of healing and learning, and he would forever remain grateful to Galadriel for sending him on his path to the Valley, thus allowing him to find his purpose in life.

"A friend of mine is in need of allies," she had told him. "He seeks to build a new home for his people, and all the others drifting about after the last great war. I believe he has thought long about this, and I know him to be able to lead his people in both wartime and in peace. But their number is still small, and they lost many a friend in the battle. And Elrond still mourns for his brother."

"I am not a warrior," Erestor had told her, "nor will I ever be."

And she had smiled at that. "I am not looking for warriors," she had told him. "The world has seen enough of those, and if need be, more can be trained. What I seek - what Elrond seeks, too, without knowing it - is a friend who will stand by his side and follow him down the rocky path he has chosen. A friend who can give him clever counsel and tell him where he errs. Elrond has enough swords. What he needs is a pair of sharp eyes, an even sharper wit and a forgiving heart. You possess all of those." She had turned her beautiful eyes on him, looking through his face and right into his troubled soul. "You have been adrift, Erestor, for too long a time. Going with Elrond and aiding him in building this homestead of his will give you both a purpose and a place to stay. And I know you both well enough to say that you are suited to each other. You have each lost a brother you loved, and it is my hope that you will find solace in each other."

Erestor had been doubtful at first, even though he politely refrained from mentioning his doubts to her. He owed Galadriel much, and he trusted her counsel and her friendship enough to at least try and follow her wishes. He said his goodbyes to Lothlorien and set out on his journey through the vast wilderness towards the Valley of Imladris.

Still lost in his memories as he guided his horse through the same wilderness now, he thought of his first meeting with Elrond.

What Galadriel had neglected to mention - be it because she assumed that it went without saying, or with a hidden purpose he would never find out - was that Elrond was none other than the son of Eärendil and Elwing, grandson of Idril Celebrindal and Tuor, son of Huor; and thus, of Gondolinian blood. You could not have told it from looking upon him; Erestor remembered Idril, the King's daughter, and her grandson bore no great resemblance to her. Although it had to be said that Erestor had seen Idril through the eyes of a child, and an easily distracted child at that, and he had never even met her son Eärendil.

He learned of Elrond's parentage sometime after their first meeting and was more than a little startled by it. Fate - in this case aided by Galadriel - had intertwined his lifeline with that of one of the great houses of his city once more.

Erestor silently resigned himself to the fact that Gondolin would never truly let go of him, not even years after its destruction when it had faded to a pale memory in the minds of most of his contemporaries. To them, it was a thing of legend, but to Erestor it was alive still, enduring and embodied in Elrond, Lord of Imladris, great-grandson of Gondolin's last king.

Imladris itself, even though founded almost a hundred years prior to Erestor's arrival in the Valley, remained a small settlement that had an improvised and somewhat temporary air about it. Erestor rode into the Valley in the dying light of a cloudy autumn day, but even shrouded in the gloom and the evening mists, the eerie beauty of the place sang to his heart. It was a wild natural beauty, not yet quite tamed, steep cliffs and rock falls, white, gushing streams forcefully making their way as they chose, undammed and unhindered.

The settlement itself lay on a high cliff, overlooking a large part of the valley. It was built upon a set of terraces, some natural, others cut by the strength and patience of the settlers. There were gardens and orchards and a high hall with slender pillars, surrounded by several smaller buildings of woodwork and stone.

Somehow, though, the place still had the faint air of an army encampment, and when he came closer, Erestor noticed that while there were a fair number of elves up and about, attending to gardens and horses and livestock, there were no children.

Sentries made him out sooner than he had expected, and two riders came out to greet him. They were courteous enough, but he could see the wariness in their eyes, a reminder of troubled and less peaceful times. They led him to their lord, who was tall and lean, with dark hair and grey eyes that held a light of their own. Even in those peaceful days, you could see the stern warrior shining through, and Erestor was not quite comfortable in his presence at first.

"Galadriel sent you," Elrond said, studying him calmly. "Yet you bear no resemblance to the folk of the Golden Wood."

Erestor inclined his head. "I was a guest there, for a time."

Elrond continued to look at him expectantly, until Erestor felt prompted to add to his words. "My home... lay elsewhere."

Understanding came to Elrond's eyes, then, and the harsh lines of his face softened. "You will find that everyone here has come to this valley in search of a new home. If you are willing, you may find a place for yourself here."

Thus, Erestor came to settle at Imladris and despite his early doubts and the weight of dark memories still haunting his dreams, made a home for himself there. He remained in the Valley for the latter half of the Second Age, unperturbed by the tumultuous events shaking the outside world, building and shaping Imladris and growing with it. When Elrond left to fight alongside Gil-Galad and Elendil in the Last Alliance of elves and men, Erestor remained at Imladris, his faithful steward.

Now, many years into the Third Age of the World, Erestor retraced his steps and rode towards Lothlorien, Galadriel's daughter riding beside him.

"I have not seen the Golden Wood in many years," he said to Celebrían, and she smiled.

"You will find it unchanged, or almost so."

Her words rang true when Erestor looked upon the home of the Galadhrim and found it just as he had left, timeless and of otherworldly beauty. They were welcomed joyously. The hospitality of the Golden Wood left nothing to be desired. Rest and refreshment were offered to all, and fresh clothes laid out for them, and that night a feast was celebrated in their honor. Songs rose in the glowing twilight, stories were shared, and much laughter was heard amid the trees.

Celebrían sat between her mother and father, radiant and smiling. And when they had all satisfied their hunger and quenched their thirst, she called Celeth to her side.

"Mother," she said, "when I left the home of my childhood, you gave Celeth to me, to serve as head of my guard; and he has served me well. He has been a true and loyal friend and bravely fought alongside the warriors of Imladris. He has won many friends in the Valley, and he has also won the heart of Firavel, the minstrel of Imladris. I bid you, release him from his service to Lothlorien and allow him to become a member of the household of Elrond, so that he may be united with the one he loves."

And Galadriel looked upon her daughter and turned her gaze to the warrior before her with a smile. "Is this your wish?" she asked.

"It is my wish, my lady," Celeth replied with a bow.

"Then so be it. I wish you much joy, Celeth of Imladris. May your union be blessed."

Cheers rose amid the assembled crowd, and many came to congratulate Celeth. There were more songs, and more laughter.

Glorfindel moved to stand beside his lieutenant and added his good wishes to those of the others. "You are no longer jealous of me, are you?" he teased, and Celeth laughed. "No, and I have all but forgotten that I ever was. It was a silly thing. Firavel cured me of my misconceptions... and word is, you love another."

Glorfindel made no response, but Celeth laid a hand upon his arm and said: "I hope you, too, find what I have found, my friend."

Glorfindel raised his eyes to look at Erestor, seated across the room by the side of Lady Galadriel. "It is all well," he said.

 

* * *

 

 

"Erestor."

He found Galadriel's luminous eyes resting upon his face. "How have you been, my friend? You have remained quiet tonight, has the voyage tired you? You had not left Imladris in many long years."

Erestor smiled faintly. "I am not quite _that_ old."

"But weary?" she asked.

"A bit," he admitted. "I had never wished to see another war, and I fear this war we fought is not yet over."

Galadriel inclined her head. "That may be true, much as I wish it were not."

"I came not only to accompany Celebrían," he told her, "I also seek your counsel. I have always known it to be wise."

"I shall do my best," Galadriel said. She looked at him curiously. "I have not known you seeking guidance in many long years. What troubles you?"

"Many strange thoughts and dreams. I cannot make sense of them. If you allow it, I would like to consult your mirror to gain some clarity."

"Has my daughter not warned you? Have not I?" Galadriel asked sternly. "The mirror will not do you any favors, Erestor. It will not show what you wish to see; it will not show you the future as a clear path laid out before you. If you seek my counsel, let me tell you that the mirror will not give you answers, and I fear it may even darken your dreams."

"They could hardly grow any darker," Erestor told her quietly.

Galadriel sighed. "Oh, my friend. You carry a heavy burden. Come now, if you will. If it is your wish to look into the mirror, I will not deny it."

She rose and took his hand; and together they left the feast and walked to the quiet clearing he remembered from so many years ago. She bade him sit, filled the silver basin with water, and placed it before him.

"Before you do this, let me express my doubts, Erestor," Galadriel said, looking at him across the shimmering surface of the water. She already seemed very far away. "Whether you consider it a gift or a curse, precognition is in your bloodline. I would not go as far as to call you a seer, but you are a scion of the House of the Fountain, and to the members of that house, the fabric of time was always a thin veil. I have heard of both Ecthelion and his sister catching occasional glimpses of the future and you told me yourself that in the final days of Gondolin, Lady Elaraël was plagued by dark dreams. Your own mind's eyes seem to look into the past far more frequently than into the future, but that may simply be your own unconscious choice or the weight of the burden you carry as the keeper of memories. The mirror is a window into realms beyond the reach of mortal eyes, and as I have often observed, it has a mind of its own. It may easily lead you astray, given that you already see more of those realms than most others."

"I understand your concern, and I thank you for your counsel," Erestor said, but the unspoken _and yet I must do this_ hovered in the air between them.

Galadriel sighed softly. "As you wish."

She withdrew, and Erestor was left to stare at the surface of the water by himself. The mirror gave no warning or a chance to select the images it showed; it drew him in almost immediately and the first thing he saw was horribly familiar - the image of the burning city. The angle was different, though. While in his waking dreams and nightmares, he usually watched Gondolin burn from the high ground, from the shoulder of a hill on the path that the refugees fleeing the city had taken; this time he was floating in the air above.

The inferno was no less terrible from this perspective. He watched the high towers crumble and fall, as black crowds of foes swarmed through the streets. Chaos had erupted and taken the city in storm, breathing smoke and flames.

Erestor watched, paralyzed, as his people were slaughtered, their houses wrecked, and their city destroyed. The walls had been breached in too many places, yet still the defenders of Gondolin were valiantly fighting a losing battle. Suddenly, his perspective shifted, and Erestor found himself standing at the edge of the deep chasm into which the Balrog would pull Glorfindel, only moments later. Now, Glorfindel was still struggling with the beast, alone and friendless, for Ecthelion had already fallen.

Erestor had not watched his elder brother perish, not in reality, but countless times in his dreams. He had not observed Glorfindel's desperate struggle with the Balrog, either.

Now, through Galadriel's mirror, he saw it.

Glorfindel's blade was lightning-fast; it whirled through the air making it sing an eerie lament for the doomed city. But the Balrog towered above the golden-haired warrior, black and ferocious, shrouded in flame and darkness. Glorfindel struck at it and it roared its anger at him, wielding fire as a weapon.

There was but one way to defeat a Balrog, and it was a feat no mortal could accomplish: one had to follow it into the abyss from whence it had emerged, into the deep, and to battle it there until the very end of light. Glorfindel had not known this, but he learned it on that day. Erestor felt a wordless scream tear through his chest and throat as he stood helplessly, watching both of them fall and disappear in the darkness of the deep.

Around him, the scenery changed. He now stood upon a field of battle, one armor-clad warrior among many. The scene was unfamiliar, but when he saw Elrond raise Gil-Galads banner, he understood that it was one of the defining moments of the Last Alliance.

More images of war and of battle, of pain, death and destruction followed. Fire consumed villages and cities. Erestor was unsure if he was witnessing past, present or future, it all ran together. It seemed as if the entire history of this world was one long succession of brutal battles. He saw cities rise and fall. One of them stood out, gleaming white in the morning sunlight, with a white tree in a courtyard, the image hauntingly familiar. Yet even that city was flooded with enemies, and boulders hurled against its walls by terrible machines. Erestor watched the city's steward die in flame, but suddenly, the tide seemed to turn, and the enemy was driven out. In the white city, a new king was crowned, but Erestor could not see his face.

Another change of scenery brought him back to Imladris, to the gardens full of flowers, and suddenly he saw Celebrían, heavy with child, and two young boys by her side, who had Elrond's looks. He then understood that he was seeing Elrond's children. The color of the leaves changed, and now there was another child, a maiden with gray eyes and dark hair. She was playing with another elfling roughly her age, this one male, or rather, not playing: Glorfindel was teaching both to hold a bow. "Hold your arm higher, Lindir," he said, and startled, Erestor wondered if after seeing Elrond's children, he was now observing Glorfindel with his son and daughter.

The scene faded away, and he observed the maid again, now grown into a startlingly beautiful woman, and by her side was a man, tall and proud. Erestor did not hear what they said to each other, but he observed the same man again, holding two pieces of a broken sword, a strange pastime for a warrior.

Then, suddenly, he was thrown back into the flames, as another burning city appeared before his eyes. It was not Gondolin, it was a city of men. A raging storm of fire was consuming it and every one of its inhabitants. Bells rang for help that would not come, and a great shadow crossed the sky above the city, dreadful and unknown.

The circle closed as Gondolin re-emerged from the ashes, only to be burned and destroyed again, its high towers overshadowed by all the other burning cities he had seen, a sea of ghostly flames, flames behind flames, and black smoke. Erestor sank to his knees, unable to bear the sight anymore, but equally unable to escape it. He lost consciousness, sank into a strange twilight, a shadow world, where shadowy images of long-dead cities and cities not yet built continued to burn, and shadowy warriors long gone and not yet born fought unknown enemies. A shadowy Balrog crawled back out of the abyss and reached for Erestor.

"Is this what you were looking for?" Galadriel's disembodied voice asked. "Come back! Return, Erestor!"

But he could not move, he was tied into his own nightmare, unable to escape, watching the shadows dance and fight, and die, and rise again. It seemed to go on forever, and then suddenly, amid the shadows there appeared a light, bright and strong. It was shapeless at first, before it assumed familiar features. Erestor was drawn behind a shield of blazing light and enveloped in it, and the shadows were driven back, they could touch him no more.

He understood, then, that it was Glorfindel who had come for him, had followed him even into the twilight world, and that what he saw was not his physical form as he appeared in Middle Earth, but his true form.

"There is your answer," Galadriel said, "you have but to accept it."

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel's golden hair fell loose upon his shoulders and shadowed his downturned face. He was seated between the accommodating roots of a tall tree, Erestor's head resting in his lap.

"What has befallen him?" Celebrían asked as she stepped into the clearing. She was clearly worried for her friend, because she perhaps understood better than all others the dangers lurking beneath the smooth surface of her mother's mirror. Many years ago, she had looked into it and seen her future, and since that day she carried the burden of a knowledge not meant for any mortal being. "Is he ill?"

"Fear not, now he is but asleep," Galadriel said, as much to her daughter as to Glorfindel, who would still not raise his eyes from the sleeper's pale face.

"And before?" Celebrían asked, stepping closer. The dark green moss beneath her feet already wore shimmering drops of dew.

"He had ventured too far, out into realms where he was not meant to set foot. Glorfindel brought him back." Which in itself was fascinating enough. Galadriel contemplated the Lord of the Golden Flower, seated seemingly peacefully between the roots of the tree and still shielding Erestor. She, too, had seen some of the light he cast on the other side.

 _You have a powerful and strong protector, Erestor_ , she thought. _One who is devoted to you as much as he is to Elrond, his lord._

It did not much surprise her that there was a bond between those two; in truth, it would have surprised her if there had not been one. Their fates had been intertwined since their earliest days. _The last blossom of the Golden Flower, and the last child of the Fountain. Somewhere, one of the Valar must be smiling._

Celebrían contemplated the unlikely couple, and she, too, smiled.

"Thank you," she said to Glorfindel, who finally looked up, "I trust you will keep watch over him." Her word conveyed a blessing that was unnecessary, because she had long shared Glorfindel's confidence and had let him know on more than one occasion that she approved of his choice.

"I will."

"And scold him for being irresponsible and childishly curious and venturing out to far." Her smile turned mischievous.

Glorfindel gently brushed a lock of dark hair from Erestor's face. "I will do that, too," he replied, "although I fear it will not help much. He would commit the same foolish acts again."

"Most likely," Galadriel agreed with a certain fondness. "But I do not fear for him as long as he has you by his side."

Glorfindel turned his gaze upon her. "I could not stand anywhere else," he said, sounding almost apologetic.

"I understand," Galadriel assured him. "I saw it in your eyes, many years ago. You are always watching him." She looked at him curiously. "Did you remember him? When you first came to Imladris?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "Not right away. The memories came back after a while. Ecthelion's brother..."

"If that is the first thing you remembered, I am not surprised to see you so troubled now," Galadriel said shrewdly. "Are you afraid of breaking your vow? You need not be. Your love for Ecthelion is in no way diminished or blemished by the fact that you now love his brother. You loved Ecthelion deeply, but without hope. You will always love him. Erestor, though, is different, and these are different days. There is no shame in it."

Glorfindel returned her gaze and she could see that he was grateful for her words, even though he made no reply.

Erestor stirred and with a soft sigh opened his eyes. Glorfindel instinctively put out an arm to keep him from rising.

Galadriel and Celebrían stepped closer. "Did you find what you where looking for?" the Lady of the Golden Wood asked with a trace of mischief in her voice. "Sometimes, the things we search are closer than they appear to be."

Erestor frowned. "If possible, I am even more confused than before."

"We will leave you to sort out your confusion, then," Galadriel said and, taking her daughter's arm, led her away.

Glorfindel watched them leave, until they were no more than two white shadows in the twilight of dawn. High above, there was a slight rustling in the tall trees, but otherwise the Golden Wood was quiet, as if sleeping. He glanced at the mirror, deceptively calm and untroubled, and with a shudder quickly turned his head away. Even though he understood its allure, Glorfindel feared Galadriel's mirror.

"I do not wish to know the future," he said softly.

"Be glad and try to hold on to that sentiment." Erestor's eyes were closed again, but his face looked far from peaceful.

The light between the trees gradually grew stronger and gray slowly turned into other colors as the stars dwindled and the moon laid itself to rest.

"You never answered Galadriel's question," Glorfindel remarked. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"In order to give an answer, you have to understand the question," Erestor said, "and in truth, I do not even fully know what I am looking for. I saw a great many things on the other side of the mirror, and only a few of them where bright and hopeful. Many remain a mystery. It will please Elrond and Celebrían to know, though, that I saw their children. Their hopes are not in vain, it seems." Now he opened his eyes and looked up at Glorfindel. "I believe, I saw yours, too. Or your son, at least. The maiden looked a little too much like Elrond to not be one of his."

Glorfindel gave an astonished laugh that turned into a frown. "I believe that to be very unlikely. I have been told, long ago, that I was the last scion of my house, and I do not see how that could change."

"Time will tell," Erestor replied.

Glorfindel gently dug his fingers into his dark locks and remained silent.

 

* * *

 

 

After spending many pleasant days in Lothlorien, reunited with her mother and father and the friends and companions of her youth, Lady Celebrían returned to Imladris. Elrond welcomed her gladly and they continued to live as peacefully as they had before the siege. Erestor made a point of telling both of them about the small glimpse of their future he had foreseen, and their gratitude was his.

"Then we will have two sons as well," Elrond mused, looking both pensive and undeniably pleased. "So far, I only knew of our daughter."

Which confirmed a suspicion Erestor had long since entertained; Elrond, too, caught occasional glimpses of the future. It also explained, why Elrond had seemed far less perturbed about the lack of an heir to Imladris than his wife.

Celebrían sent him a somewhat exasperated look. "You _knew_ , and you did not care to tell me," she chided, shaking her head at him. Her hair fell loose unto her shoulders that day, and it shone in the light as she moved. Erestor thought her especially beautiful just then, even though she wore only a simple dress and little jewelry.

Elrond looked a little sheepish, and maybe he, too, was dazzled by the lady's beauty. It would not have surprised Erestor. "I could not be certain." Which was part of the truth, as they both could tell, but not all of it. Erestor wondered what exactly it was that his liege lord withheld, as Elrond wandered a few steps towards the edge of the terrace, looking down into the shady valley. Whatever it was, he was sure to have his reasons not to reveal it.

Maybe he was not dazzled by her beauty, then. Mayhap he had seen something else, something darker, that he did not want to share, for fear of burdening her heart with sorrow. A sudden shudder ran through him, a herald of dark thought: a child's life was precious, and all too easily lost. Was that what Elrond had seen?

He looked up and found Celebrían watching her husband, her gaze steady and somewhat sad, as if she knew or suspected something of his grief.

"Well," Erestor said in an attempt to lighten the mood, "it seems reasonably certain now. There will be three of them - at least - and it pains me to say that they will apparently all turn after their father, rather than their mother in looks..."

Celebrían turned towards him, her easy smile returning. "I expected no less. Glorfindel's appears to be the only family in which blonde prevails over dark, and I shall love them even if they turn out to be scaly and horned."

"Let's hope not," Erestor said, pushing an image of the Balrog to the back of his mind and replacing it with that of Celebrían's grey-eyed daughter. "She will be beautiful. Your daughter, I mean."

"What a relief," Elrond remarked drily, turning again towards them, "imagine the effort in trying to find a suitable husband for a scaly, horned lady."

"I do not think you need to worry about that for a long time still," Celebrían said reasonably, before turning to Erestor again. "And what of you, my friend? Did you see aught of your own future?"

Erestor shook his head. "Not a glimpse, but I am not surprised. My own path has always been hidden to me, and that is both a blessing and a curse. Yet I may have seen a son of Glorfindel's... though now that you mention it, there was not much of a family resemblance. If your theory holds, and all the members of the House of the Golden Flower are golden-haired and fair-eyed, it cannot have been a child of his blood." Glorfindel himself had certainly been surprised when he suggested it, almost affronted.

"Hardly surprising," Elrond commented, "if Glorfindel had any designs on marriage, he would not have waited this long. If I am not mistaken, he was both betrothed to Ecthelion's sister and himself the greatest obstacle to that union, which does not speak to me of a great desire to enter into marriage.  I am told that the Lady Ersinoë was gentle of heart and fair of face, and that both families had given their blessings to the union and desired it; and yet Glorfindel refused her. And even since his arrival at Imladris he would have had ample opportunity; half of the female population of the Valley is enamored with him, but he chose to ignore all the hands that were offered to him." His gray eyes rested on Erestor, as if daring him to take offense. It was their old game, they were playing at it again.

Paradoxically, Erestor felt the need to defend Glorfindel. "He would have agreed to marry Ersinoë eventually. The Balrog got in the way of that." After all, he reflected, it was not as if Glorfindel had had much choice. It was his duty as the sole surviving member of his House to carry on the bloodline, and he could not very well refuse the sister of his best friend and daughter of one of the greatest families in Gondolin. And Glorfindel had always been fond of Ersinoë in a slightly distracted, brotherly way.

It occurred to Erestor that while he thought of Ecthelion as his brother, he rarely thought of Ersinoë as his sister. It would have been easy, as she was closer to him in age than Ecthelion and had always been kind and affectionate towards him. And yet... there was always a sliver of resentment towards her, hidden deep within him, and difficult to repress. It was unfair, because in all of this, Ersinoë was the least culpable of all, and she had left the mortal realms so long ago.

"Glorfindel was betrothed to your sister?" Celebrían asked curiously, echoing his thoughts. "I never knew that." _But it does explain many things_ her gaze added. "That must be... somewhat uncomfortable for the both of you now."

Erestor smiled faintly. It did not surprise him that she, too, seemed to know of Glorfindel's affections. Maybe he had even confided in her, they had grown close since she had come to live at Imladris. "Somewhat. I can only conclude that there must be a higher power intent on uniting the Houses of the Fountain and the Golden Flower. At least, nobody could accuse Glorfindel of being inconsistent."

"No, certainly not," Celebrían agreed. "And that is another reason why it seems improbable that you should have seen his son in Galadriel's mirror. There. No need to worry about the future."

"I was not worried," Erestor protested.

Two pairs of eyes faced him with nearly identical looks of amusement.

Erestor sighed. "There is no epic, verse-filling romance here, except your own."

"Liar," Celebrían chided mildly.

 

* * *

 

 

Imladris celebrated the wedding of its minstrel, Firavel, and of Celeth, lieutenant of the guard, in early spring. After Galadriel had given her blessing and released her former subject from his oaths, nothing stood in the way of the union. The couple had long had Lord Elrond's blessing, and that of Celebrían, who had found a faithful friend in the minstrel.

The people of Imladris rarely needed an excuse to celebrate, but when given one, they made the most of it. With the gardens in full bloom, they organized a splendid feast for their friends and kinsfolk. Various members of Celeth's family had ridden up to Imladris, carrying the good wishes of their lady with them, and the gift of a splendid white coat with silver embroidery for the bride.

Firavel would not sing at her own wedding, but that did not mean there was a lack of song and music. Celebrían herself oversaw the wedding preparations, gently guided by Erestor, who seemed to regard this intrusion into his territory with a sort of bemused indulgence. Glorfindel watched them, chuckling to himself.

"What amuses you?" Celeth asked, joining him in the Hall of Fires.

Glorfindel nodded towards Lady Celebrían and her steward, who were arguing some of the finer points of the wedding arrangements. "Those two. They each think that they know best how to do this, but they are afraid to hurt each other's feelings. That is why Erestor pretends to appreciate her counsel - which he does not - and why she pretends to be patient - which she is not."

"They are not arguing on my behalf, are they?" Celeth asked, looking troubled at the thought.

"Bah," Glorfindel said, "if they are arguing, it is only because they enjoy it. It is a game to them. You need not worry, my friend, I have yet to hear of a wedding causing a war.  And they both mean well."

"Certainly," Celeth agreed, "and I am blessed to have fun such friends here."

"It is very easy to like you," Glorfindel told him truthfully, "and even if it weren't; we would make an effort for Firavel's sake. She is very dear to all of us." He smiled at Celeth. "I think you will be very happy. It is a kind and noble heart that you have won."

Before Celeth could make a reply, Celebrían called him to her side to ask his opinion on something related to the wedding. Glorfindel watched Celeth nod earnestly to her explanations.

"And yet people ask me why I have eschewed marriage so far," he said to Erestor, who had stepped to his side, conceding whatever point he had previously argued to his lady.

"I never asked you," Erestor pointed out, "though I sometimes wonder _how_ you evaded it for so long."

"Luck, for the most part," Glorfindel replied merrily, "as well as a fortunate taste in companions considered unsuitable."

"It is your luck that the House of the Fountain bore only one female scion in your own generation," Erestor agreed, "because you have shown a consistent fondness for members of my family."

Glorfindel held out his hand, and only half in jest. "Yours, if you choose. As you well know."

Erestor smiled his secretive smile. "I know."

 

* * *

 

 

Battle returned to the lands of the Edain, and Arveleg, king of Arthedain was slain when a great host came out of Angmar, crossing the river and surrounding Weathertop.  Elrond, mindful of his alliance with his human kin and responding to call of help from Círdan, who had taken the king's young son under his wing, ordered Glorfindel to ride to their help, but shortly thereafter decided to join his forces in the field, bringing in reinforcements from Lothlorien.

Elrond left his faithful steward behind to guard and guide Imladris in his absence, and Lady Celebrían unhappily resigned herself to the fact of knowing both her husband and many of her friends from both the Valley and the Golden Wood in mortal peril.

News from the battlefield were scarce, and neither Erestor nor Celebrían could shake off a growing feeling of uneasiness.

"What do you know?" the Lady of Imladris asked her steward one day, when they were walking in the gardens.

Erestor remained silent for a long moment, pursuing dark thoughts. "Very little, my lady."

"Alas, you feel that something is amiss. I feel the same."

"We are at war, my lady," Erestor replied drily, "naturally, something would be amiss."

"That is not what I meant, and you know it. Have you had word from Glorfindel?"

"After he rode away in the night, not bothering with goodbyes? No." Erestor was still very much perturbed by this, and more than a little hurt. It wasn't that he enjoyed watching Glorfindel and his force ride into battle, but he had come to expect it by now, and the stealthy departure in the depth of night had seemed an ill omen.

"He sought to spare you pain," Celebrían said mildly, guessing at the meaning of his sullen silence. "He knows that whatever else your feelings for him may be, you hate to see him part for unknown dangers."

That much was true, and yet... "It was discourteous."

She smiled a little at that. "You can take it up with him when he returns. Scold him for a little while. I am sure, he will see the error of his ways."

"Is that how you trained your husband?"

"Oh, hush."

But the news that reached them was not promising. The Dúnedain were defeated and king Arveleg was slain. The enemy burned and razed the tower of Amon Sûl, and Elrond sent Glorfindel to retrieve the Palantír and secure the retreat to Fornost, while he himself joined forces with Círdan and the young king to drive back the enemy.

One night, Erestor awoke with a feeling of sudden dread, and sat up so abruptly that he startled the cat nestled at his feet. He knew not where the feeling originated, and what he had dreamt about, but he felt deeply troubled and sleep eluded him for the rest of the night.

All day, he waited for a messenger to arrive, bearing news of sorrow, but none came.

He walked the terraces and gardens, lost in thought. Unconsciously, his feet carried him to Glorfindel's rosebush, and he broke off a golden flower, taking it back to his rooms.

Days passed without messages, and Erestor grew ever more uneasy, sending out his own scouts and birds. All of Imladris shared his fears, waiting for word to arrive from their lord, their friends and their family members.

Finally, it was Celeth, who returned to Imladris as the bearer of both good and bad news. Firavel greeted him with tears in her eyes.

"The enemy has been all but driven out of Fornost," Celeth told all those assembled in the Hall of Fires. "Young Araphor, son of Arveleg, is barely more than a child, but a courageous one at that. With Círdan’s help, he has rallied his forces and mounted an attack on Angmar's hosts. Lord Elrond has joined them in battle, and their efforts were not in vain. Yet there were terrible losses. The Dúnedain have suffered the worst, but a small force led by Glorfindel and carrying the Palantír to safety, was also attacked in the night and all but four of them were slain. My Lord is badly wounded."

"Who?" asked Celebrían, her voice trembling, "Elrond or Glorfindel?"

"Lord Elrond was weary, but in good health when I left him," Celeth hastily reassured her, "it is Lord Glorfindel who has suffered an evil wound and has been brought back into camp on the threshold of death. Some of the Edain found the remnants of his force and spirited them away to safety. Lord Elrond assured me that he would hasten to their encampment to do what he can for our wounded, before he sent me off. But he may arrive late." Sorrow clouded his last words. Celeth was fiercely loyal to his Gondolinian captain.

Erestor felt his chest pierced by a flash of pain, as if he himself had been stabbed by an enemy dagger or sword. All his dark fears had held a grain of truth. And while he was glad to hear that the enemy was in retreat, and that his liege lord had come out of the battle unscathed, he could not rest easily knowing a friend in mortal peril.

_He may arrive late..._

Erestor held no doubt in his mind that Elrond would do his utmost to save his warriors, and most particularly his field commander, but what if he truly arrived too late? Not even the Lord of Imladris could reanimate the dead.

And they would have no way of knowing more until the next messenger arrived. Days would pass in anguishing uncertainty, maybe even weeks. It was a long way from Fornost to the Valley and the lands in-between were wild and inhospitable.

Celebrían, visibly shaken by the news, put a hand on Celeth's arm. "Those are grave tidings," she said in a quiet voice, "do you know more of what passed?"

"Little more than I told you, my lady" Celeth said, his gaze clouded. "They rode into an enemy ambush, it seems, and very few of them got out alive. It was said that the Palantír was saved, but of the survivors, two were gravely wounded by enemy arrows, Lord Glorfindel among them." He drew a sharp breath. "I wish I had been there!"

"And I, for my part, am glad you were not," Firavel said firmly. "Although I fear for Glorfindel, and for our other friends."

Erestor caught Celebrían's gaze across the room full of anxious faces. "Now we know what our dark thoughts foretold," she said, and the deepest regret was audible in her voice. "Would that there was a way to help them! Alas, I fear that all we can do is wait." She turned back to Celeth. "Thank you, Celeth, for your tidings - unpleasant as they may have been. Go and rest now. Firavel's heart at least will be lighter, now that you have returned to us."

Celeth nodded and went away, arm in arm with the minstrel.

 

* * *

 

 

She found him late in the morning, sitting by the fountain in a small courtyard strewn with autumn leaves. Erestor had expected her sooner and had braced for the kind words she was wont to bestow upon him, and of which he wanted none. She was his friend, and to a friend he might have explained his need for solitude, but she was also his lady and as Elrond's wife de-facto ruler of Imladris. He could not very well turn her away.

"Erestor." Celebrían's voice was soft.

His fingers idly trailed in the cool water of the stone basin. In Gondolin, Ersinoë's maidens would have filled it with pretty fish, gleaming as the sun caught their quick movements.

Celebrían stepped closer. The folds of her dress and coat rustled as she knelt beside him. "What are your thoughts?"

He shook his head. "Nothing pleasant, my lady."

She sighed. "I expected as much. And yet... there is still hope, Erestor. You tempt fate, if you grieve for the living."

"Hope is such a fickle thing," he said.

"So is the flame of a candle." She reached out a hand and put something in his lap. Erestor looked down and saw that it was a yellow rosebud. He felt a sharp stab of familiar pain, and something akin to anger... it was not for her to meddle with his feelings.

"You should go," Celebrían told him. It was voiced as if she expected him to protest, and likely she did.

"What, to Fornost?" Erestor stared at her incredulous. The very idea seemed astonishing to him. "I have a sworn duty to Imladris and my lord." If nothing else, that was reason enough to not even consider her advice - tempting as it might have been. There were other factors as well - for someone not talented with either bow or sword, it seemed a dangerous idea to enter a country at war, and Erestor doubted that his presence would be particularly welcome, since he had very little to contribute.

And yet...

"You also have a duty to yourself," Celebrían said gently. "And truth be told, you will be of little help here, suffering and aggrieved. Go, Erestor. Or do you need for me to send you?"

"I cannot leave," he insisted, "and of what help would I be there? Elrond is a far greater healer than I am, and I will never fight in open battle."

"I thought you wise, but it seems that in some matters you are no wiser than a child. Very well, then. Be my courier, if you need a mission. I would have you carry a rose to my friend Glorfindel and place it upon his brow. You may give him a kiss in my name as well, and my best wishes for his recovery. While you are at it, you may also tell my lord to make haste and to finish this unpleasant war of his, lest he miss the arrival of his firstborn child." She looked at him, a trace of mischief in her dark eyes.

Erestor was momentarily taken aback, but he quickly recovered. "You are with child?"

"I believe that is what I said, yes. So. Will you be my messenger? I insist."

Briefly and despite himself, he smiled. "You know that I cannot refuse."

"Splendid," Celebrían clapped her hands together, "that was rather easier than I expected. Take an escort and the fastest horses from the stable. Ride swiftly, take no rest. And bring them home, Erestor. Both of them."

 

* * *

 

 

They rode like shades through the war-ravaged lands, swift as wind-driven snow, barely allowing themselves or their horses rest. Celeth rode with them, even though he had only just come from the battlefield. Celebrían and Firavel had both tried to hold him back, but he would hear none of it.

Erestor remembered little of the journey afterwards, his mind racing miles ahead. The hosts of Angmar had wrought horrible devastation upon the land, and it seemed doubtful that anything would grow and live again where their shadow had passed.

Tucked into the folds of his coat, he carried a single yellow rose.

They found Elrond’s forces encamped around a stony hill that offered a view of the wide surrounding plain, and it gladdened Erestor’s heart to see their numbers. Many had perished, but more still had survived.

Scouts rode out to meet them, and their weary wariness changed to shouts of glee when they found friends where they had expected yet another ambush.

“Lord Erestor!” Gimbar, Halen’s son greeted him, “what an unexpected joy to see you here! Lord Elrond will be pleased.”

“Lead me to him, if you please,” Erestor said, “I have news that will gladden his heart.”

The young elf smiled at him, and led him towards a great tent, where he found Elrond tending to his wounded warriors. Erestor felt a great wave of relief to see his friend weary, but apparently unharmed.

“Erestor!” Elrond said, rising to greet him, and his face showed astonishment- and for a moment, a glimpse of fear. “I thought you safe at Imladris. What could possibly bring you out here? Come, let us step outside; we ought not disturb their rest.” His eyes swept briefly over the prone forms of the wounded, concerned for every one of them. Erestor tried not to look for a flicker of gold among their rows.

He followed Elrond out of the tent and side by side, they walked up the hill.  Large stones lay scattered along the path, a giant’s playthings. The sentries posted at the top withdrew a little, offering them privacy, but they stayed in sight, ever-watchful.

“The enemy has retreated, and I doubt that we shall see much more of them,” Elrond said, looking out over the plain. “We prevailed… but at such a cost, Erestor! The Dúnedain took such heavy losses that their number is now diminished, and I fear for their future. Círdan has taken their young prince under his wing, but his inheritance lies in ruins. Poor child, and he has lost his father, too.”

He turned to face his chief counselor. “What news of Imladris? You would not have followed us into the wilderness if the need had not been great.”

Elrond was bracing himself for bad news, Erestor could tell, and he rushed in to reassure his friend. “It is joy I carry, not sorrow. Your lady wife sends me.”

Gray eyes searched his face and widened slightly with understanding. Celebrían would have been disappointed, but she ought to have known that it was nigh impossible to truly surprise her husband. Erestor smiled despite himself.

“You could not have brought me better news,” Elrond said, embracing him. “Is she well?”

“Quite well as I left her,” Erestor assured him. “And anxious for you to return. If I were you, I would hurry; you know better than I that for all her admirable qualities, patience is not something Lady Celebrían possesses in abundance.”

Elrond laughed, his expression joyful. “That is very true, but for your sake, I will keep it from her that you said so.”

Still amused, Erestor inclined his head. “So the battle is won?”

“The battle, and maybe the war. We shall see. For now, the Witch-king has lost much of his strength and has retreated to Carn Dûm.”

“Good riddance.”

“Indeed.”

“What are our own losses?” Erestor asked, fearful of the answer.

Elrond shook his head, sadly. “Too many. I will go over the numbers with you at some other time… I was able to save some of our wounded, but for others, my help came too late.” It was clear that this pained him greatly, and Erestor was about to reach out for him, when Elrond caught his hand.

“But Erestor – you did not come for me, did you?”

“I did, my lord” Erestor protested. “And I was glad to find you safe and unharmed.”

“No doubt, my friend. And having found me so, you are free to ask what you would really wish to know.” He sought Erestor’s gaze. “He lives… but he was grievously wounded. I wish I had better news, or that I could offer you certainty. Alas, all I have is hope.”

Alive.

Erestor briefly closed his eyes, unsure whether to feel relieved or afraid.

“May I see him?”

“Of course, Erestor.”

A separate, smaller tent had been set aside for Glorfindel, and one of his warriors was keeping watch. His face betrayed his sorrow, and Erestor felt his throat constrict.

“My lord Elrond,” the elf bowed his head, but started when he recognized Erestor. He called out a hasty greeting, obviously astonished.

“How fares Glorfindel?” Elrond asked.

“I am afraid there has been no change, my lord.”

Elrond’s face betrayed his disappointment, but he thanked the guard nevertheless and waved Erestor into the tent.

Glorfindel lay still as if sleeping, his golden hair tangled upon the pillow. His face was unmarred, but pale as snow, and he seemed somehow diminished, smaller than his usual self. Mortal.

His hands lay still and pale at his sides, and when Erestor touched one of them, it felt startlingly cold.

“What happened?” he asked heavily.

Elrond came to stand beside him, looking down at the prone form of his field commander. “Glorfindel sought to carry the Palantír from Amon Sûl to safety. We could not allow it to fall to the enemy, it is too valuable. But his party was ambushed by a great horde of orcs and overwhelmed, an all of them would have perished, if not for the courage of a group of the King’s men, lost after the battle and on their way back to join the main force. They slew the orcs and carried the survivors and the stone away. Our scouts found them and brought them to camp. I have sent the stone to Fornost, against my better judgement.”

“Do you fear that Fornost may fall?” Erestor asked, not taking his eyes from Glorfindel’s face. The kingdoms of men and the comings and going of the greater world were of little importance to him now.

“In time, it may. Angmar is too powerful, and the strength of Arnor is waning. But the Palantír is not mine to command.”

One might have argued that Elrond would have been a better guardian of the seeing-stones than the remaining heirs of Númenor, hunted and surrounded by foes, but Erestor was too distracted to do so.

Elrond bent over Glorfindel, briefly examining him. “He was wounded by a poisoned arrow. I found the tip buried deep in his flesh, and a vile thing it was! No orc I know of would possess the skill to have forged such a thing. Other arrows pierced his shoulder and his leg. I did what was in my power, but he has not opened his eyes since he was brought here… I will not lie to you, Erestor: I fear for him.”

 _So do I_ , Erestor thought, his heart painfully heavy inside his chest. He suddenly felt world-weary and old, as if his true age had crept up on him unbidden and unnoticed.

He felt Elrond’s hand on his shoulder. “Stay with him. Rest. You have spent long days and nights on the road. I will have food and drink brought here.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Erestor asked without much hope.

“Wait,” Elrond said, “wait and hope.”

There was little comfort in his words for Erestor, who sat down at Glorfindel’s bedside, still holding his cold hand.

When Elrond returned sometime later, he found them both asleep, one mortally wounded and the other burdened with sorrow, and his heart went out to his friends. There was nothing he could do for them but hope and wish them well, but it seemed unjust that they should be struck with grief just as he had gained another victory and was expecting his first child.

A withered yellow rose lay by Glorfindel’s pillow, Celebrían’s well-meant gift.

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel remained lost to the world for many days. Erestor stayed by his side, silent and fearful, weighed down by dark thoughts.

 _Why bring him back, only to take him away again?_ he asked and received no answer.

He wondered if there was any power in Middle Earth that could save Glorfindel and would have been willing to go to Lothlorien or to the ends of the world to find it, but moving through a vast expanse of wilderness haunted by marauding orcs and the remnants of Angmar’s forces with one so grievously wounded, was a fool’s errand.

Elrond, for his part, waited until he had gathered all the stragglers of his force and the warriors of Lorien that had fought under his command, and then moved them back towards Imladris, slowly and warily, mindful of the many wounded among their ranks. It was a long trek, and twice they ran into dispersed remnants of the enemy’s forces and had to fight their way onwards.

The Valley was shrouded in mists and resplendent in late autumn-colors when it welcomed them home. Celebrían, ruling in Elrond’s absence and managing the household with an effortlessness that should have made Erestor proud, welcomed the returning army, caring for the wounded and weary alike. She embraced and kissed her husband, overjoyed to see him returned safely, and took up watch over Glorfindel beside Erestor.

“He loves you more than you know,” she told her unconscious friend when she was alone with him, because Erestor had been called away. “You have won a proud and noble heart, Glorfindel. But if you do not return to us, you will destroy him.”

She placed the Elanor she had brought from the gardens in a small vase by his bed and kissed his brow before quietly leaving the room.

“Is there nothing to be done?” she asked her husband, finding him brooding over maps and letters.

“He has come this far, and not left us,” Elrond replied, “and that in itself is reason to hope. I believe he will recover, but it will take a long time. Those arrows…” He shook his head, leaving the sentence unfinished. “It is a great evil that has taken hold of Angmar. Perhaps, we should have taken greater care after the Battle of the Last Alliance to clear out all the allies of the One and not let any of them slip away. But we had lost Gil-Galad and Elendil, and left so many fallen friends on the battlefield…”

Celebrían stepped to his side and embraced him. “It is not for us to look into the future, not for elves and not for men. And those who do, shrink back and tremble at the sight.”

She thought of the glimpse of the future her mother’s mirror had shown her. It had haunted her dreams ever since.

“I have a favor to ask,” she said, forcing her mind towards lighter thoughts. “I know that you intend to send Celeth with an embassy to Lindon, but for my friend Firavel’s sake, I would ask you to send another. She has confided in me that she is also with child.” She smiled at him. “It is fortunate, our son will have a companion of his own age to play with.”

Elrond retuned her smile. “It is a pretty match you made between your kinsman of the Golden Wood and our minstrel.”

“Would I ever meddle in such things?” Celebrían asked in mock-affront.

“You would, my dear.” He kissed her cheek. “We both wish to bring our friends joy, and if meddling is called for to bring it about, then meddle we must. Mind you, not that it ever did much good for Glorfindel and Erestor. They are much too obstinate for their own good. Particularly Erestor.”

Celebrían laughed. “You are offended, because all your scheming has been in vain so far.”

“He is my dear friend. I would see him happy,” Elrond said mildly.

“I know; and so would I. But you have to allow them to move on their own time. Even if it pains you.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Glorfindel awoke from his long sleep, wandering alone and lost through dark dreams filled with shadows and pain, he was at first too weak to speak. But he found himself surrounded by friends and well-cared for.

His gaze fell first on the tiny golden stars that Celebrían had placed by his bed, glowing faintly in the fading daylight, and for a moment he thought himself in Lothlorien and wondered how he had gotten there. The curving, painted ceiling above his head was familiar, though, and when he stirred, Erestor bent over him, astonished to find him awake.

“You are safe at Imladris,” Erestor reassured him. “Elrond has brought you home.” Of his own part in the endeavor, he said nothing, but he looked at Glorfindel with great joy and relief shining on his face and told him what he knew of the end of the campaign against Angmar, and the saving of the Palantír.

“Once again, you are the hero of this tale,” and Glorfindel heard an undertone of fond mockery in his voice. “But it cost you dearly, this time. A poisoned arrow pierced your chest, and not even Elrond himself knew if you would live or die.” A shadow of his pain and fear was cast over him as he spoke, and Glorfindel raised the hand on his uninjured side to gently brush the tears off his face with his fingertips.

Thus, Elrond found them, and with a smile withdrew before either of his friends had noticed him.

“And so,” he said to his wife when he joined her in the Hall of Fires, “it seems that I win this round of our game.”

“Erestor would tell you that you looked like a cat in front of a pot of cream,” she said.

“I have much to be grateful for,” Elrond replied complacently, placing his hand over hers as they turned to listen to the songs sung and stories told by their people.

Telling stories was also how Erestor kept Glorfindel from going mad with boredom during the long weeks and months of his slow recovery. If patience was not Lady Celebrían’s strong suit, it wasn’t Glorfindel’s, either.

“You are worse than a child,” Erestor chided. “But Elrond told you to rest and stay still, and so you will.”

Glorfindel frowned and complained, but found himself under a sternly disapproving gaze.

“Fine,” he relented, “but stay with me.”

Erestor raised his brows at him. “Do you see me going anywhere? Of course, I will stay with you. Not least to keep you where you are. I will _sit on you_ , Glorfindel, if I have to.”

“I doubt Elrond would approve of that,” Glorfindel said, taking Erestor’s hand and intertwining their fingers. “Besides, your cat is already sitting on my feet. And quite a fierce little lion she is, she tried to claw me when I moved earlier.”

“Well done,” Erestor said to the cat, which lazily turned its yellow eyes on him. “And?” he asked Glorfindel. “What story would you hear?”

“You know. You promised me Gondolin,” Glorfindel said, holding his gaze.

Erestor sighed. “You are a fool to willingly seek out pain. But my promise stands.

Very well, then, Gondolin…

… much of this tale will be known to you, for you were there for most of it. Gondolin was the city of Turgon, founded in the first age, and longest-lasting of the kingdoms in exile. It lasted, because its location remained hidden from its enemies during the long years of Turgon’s wise rule. Its streets were wide and paved with stone, fair houses to both sides, embellished with marble. Its gardens were green and fecund, and a happy people lived within its walls. There were bright fountains whispering in its squares, and birds singing in its trees, and sweetest of all sang the nightingales of Lady Ersinoë, Ecthelion’s sister.

Twelve great houses rose in the city of Gondolin, and the greatest was that of Turgon, which bore Idril Celebrindal, his daughter, fairest of all the maidens of the Hidden City. And Idril loved Tuor, son of Huor, and with her father’s blessing married him.

A silver fountain rose in the courtyard of one of the great houses, and diamonds sparkled on its shield: the House of the Fountain, led into battle by Ecthelion and to the call of flutes.

Battle came to the Hidden City at the hands of Maeglin, who betrayed it. Maeglin, King Turgon’s nephew by his sister Aredhel, secretly loved his fair cousin Idril, who rejected him in favor of Tuor. This rejection, Maeglin could not bear, and in his bitter grief sold out his city to the enemy. Unseen, Morgoth’s dark forces surrounded the city, placing Gondolin under siege. For many days, the ranks held, and the battle raged. Side by side fought the twelve great houses, led into battle by Tuor and Ecthelion, but I need not tell you that, you rode with them.

Morgoth brought with him fierce orcs, and darker creatures still, Balrogs and dragons, the ill-begotten spawn of Glaurung, and Gondolin was bathed in flame and engulfed. Gondolin fell, and with it its great houses. The few survivors that were left were spirited away through a secret passage by Idril, Turgon’s far-sighted daughter, who had seen the darkness coming and prepared for it. She could not save her city, but she saved her small son, and her beloved Tuor…

… she also saved another child, unbidden and almost as an afterthought. As the city burned, Esril, Lady Ersinoë’s faithful handmaiden, carried me away with her and we followed the Princess and her people through the secret passage. I was terribly afraid, for I had seen the city burn, and Ersinoë’s black hair cast in a halo of flame before she fell to her knees, pierced by a sword. The taste of ashes was in my mouth, bitter and dry. I cried for my brother, for Lady Elaraël, for you, Glorfindel. I wanted you to jump through the flames on your white horse, resplendent with light, and to carry us away to safety… but you never came.

We turned our backs to the burning city and we ran.

Idril and Tuor led us to safety, and in exile, I was raised by Esril, who cared for me like a mother, but I never forgot what I had lost. I travelled far and wide, but Gondolin, the image of the city engulfed by dragon-fire was ever on my mind, and in my dreams. I stayed in Lindon with Círdan’s people for some time, and later with the Galadhrim of the Golden Wood, before Galadriel sent me to Elrond to make my home in this valley.”

He looked up at Glorfindel. “I suppose you know of Idril and Tuor, and Eärendil. Their songs are often sung in the Hall of Fires, for they are Elrond’s kin. They rarely sing of Gondolin, now, it is too sad a tale…”

“They should,” Glorfindel said. “A more beautiful city never saw the light of morning on its walls and slender towers. Do you remember when Ecthelion showed you the high ceiling of his great hall, the live-like flowers and leaves carven from the stone by your own father? And Ersinoë’s gardens, filled with flowering trees, where she danced with her maidens… there was always music, Ecthelion’s people were fond of the flute, and he sang with me.”

Erestor smiled sadly. “I remember. Ecthelion would tell such marvelous stories when I was a child, and I loved his songs, too. People saw the stern warrior when he rode out, the head of his house, the hero. But to me he was always kind and gentle.” Again, his eyes met Glorfindel’s. “He was also a terrible fool. It pains me to say it, but my brother was too impulsive too be fair, and too proud to be wise. He played a foolish game with your and his sister’s love and although I do not believe that he deliberately meant to be cruel with either of you, he was. He should have left Ersinoë the freedom to find her own husband, I do not doubt that she would have chosen with care and good sense. Come to think of it, she was ever the more sensible of the two of them.”

Glorfindel shook his head, smiling. “You would never have said such a thing to Ecthelion, had he lived.”

“No, of course not; I worshipped the ground he walked on,” Erestor agreed with a measure of irony in his voice. “But I have had a very long time to think about it.”

Glorfindel looked down at the hand he still held clasped in his own. “You must have been terribly lonely, and for a long time,” he said softly. “I am glad you found Elrond and Imladris.”

“As am I,” Erestor said earnestly. “This Valley is my home and my life now.”

“Despite unwelcome intrusions from the past,” Glorfindel said, mischief dancing in his blue eyes.

Erestor sighed softly. “Yes, Glorfindel. For better or for worse, you are a part of my home and my life now, too. And I would not have it otherwise. There. Does that please you?”

“Very much,” Glorfindel assured him, raising their clasped hands and kissing the back of Erestor’s.

“Fool,” Erestor chided, but he did not withdraw.

 

* * *

 

Celebrían bore her sons – for there were two of them, which surprised everyone but perhaps herself and her husband – at midsummer. All of Imladris celebrated the arrival of Elladan and Elrohir with a great feast and from all-over the known world arrived congratulations and gifts.

Shortly thereafter, Firavel, too, bore a son and named him Lindir.

“I can tell you hope that he will turn after his mother,” Celebrían said to her friend, alluding to the child’s name. “And I hope so, too.” In looks, at least, the child turned after her, dark-eyed and dark-haired, not a trace of his fair father in his features.

“It seems that our looks are destined to fade before theirs, like bright light swallowed by the depth of the forest,” Celebrían teasingly told Celeth as she handed the child back to him. “Mine are as dark as yours, but with their father’s gray eyes.”

“If you wanted golden-haired children, you ought to have married Glorfindel,” Elrond said to her. “But I am afraid, it would have put you at odds with both myself and Erestor.”

“Oh, hush,” Celebrían chided, smiling. “Glorfindel and I both have what we asked for.”

She went to see her friend, then, carrying the children with her. Glorfindel was still recovering from his wounds, but always glad for visitors, and he adored children. She found him with Leliand and Mirún in the gardens, his hair braided and adorned with flowers.

“It is odd to see you idle, Glorfindel.”

“I am growing very good at idleness,” he replied, taking Elladan from her arms. “I have found that it is far easier to resign myself to such a fate than to face both my lord and Erestor. They are each formidable in their own right, and invincible as a united front.”

“Very wise of you,” Celebrían replied, watching the fussy child quiet in his arms. Glorfindel had a way with children, as with animals, it was astounding. Maybe they knew instinctively that he loved them dearly, and loved him in return.

“How are you, truly?”

Glorfindel shrugged. “Getting better. Elrond warned me that my recovery might take a long while, and I should not complain… it was a close thing.”

She nodded, thinking of how he had been carried home to the Valley, unconscious and pale. “I feared you lost, my friend. When Celeth brought us the news, I imagined the worst. You would have been greatly missed.”

Glorfindel smiled softly. “Erestor brought me your rose, my lady.”

“Ah! Did he deliver my kiss as well?” Celebrían asked wryly.

Glorfindel’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Your kiss? No, I am afraid _that_ must have slipped his mind. I do not remember a kiss. You should scold him for it.” He replied merrily.

“I may. But I believe you have since been well compensated – are you blushing, Glorfindel?”

“Your mother is teasing me,” Glorfindel complained to the child in his lap. “Make her stop, little one.”

Instead, Elladan gave a happy gurgle.

“My parents are coming to visit us,” Celebrían announced. “And my mother may tease you just as mercilessly, so be warned. She would not go after Erestor, as he was ever her favorite.”

“The prospect of being teased by Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood is terrifying.”

“Well, you cannot say I did not warn you.”

 

* * *

 

 

That summer brought many visitors to Imladris. Peace had returned to the troubled lands of the North, at least for a brief time, and the roads were once more safe to travel on.

The Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood arrived with many of their kinfolk, riding with a great host to greet welcome the two youngest members of their family. They brought many fine gifts, and for long nights the Hall of Fires was filled with songs and poetry and story-telling.

Some time after them arrived Círdan with a company from Lindon and bringing with him the young prince of the Dúnedain, Araphor, son of Arveleg.

“I bring you your distant kinsman,” Círdan told Elrond. “He has fought bravely against the forces of Angmar, but he has much to learn, and his kingdom is in peril. I recommend him to your care for a little while, before he must return to Fornost; I believe you may have things to teach him.”

Elrond inclined his head and graciously welcomed the young man, who was bright-eyed and fair of face, and looked about with wonder.

“Come,” Elrond said, “I would show you something.”

He led Araphor to the stone upon which the shards of Elendil’s sword Narsil, shattered by his fall, had been laid out. He then told Araphor of the Last Alliance, and of the terrible battle waged against Sauron, of his eventual defeat at the hands of Isildur, who cut the one ring from his hand with a shard of his father’s sword.

“Ohtar, Isildur’s faithful squire carried the sword here and gave it to Valandil, his youngest son. When Valandil became king, he asked me to keep the sword and preserve it for his heirs… he wanted them to remember the courage of his father and grandfather.”

Reverently, Araphor touched the shards of the broken sword. “Could it be reforged?” he asked.

“Certainly, by one who has the skill to do so, but the time has not yet come,” Elrond said.

The young man frowned. “I do not understand.”

“There is… a prophecy of sorts,” Elrond said hesitantly. “Yes, I suppose you could call it a prophecy, although the one who spoke it would resent the term. Among both the Eldar and the Edain, there are some who see farther than others and catch occasional glimpses of the future. It is more common among my people, than among yours, but it is not something we share lightly with others. You may have heard tales of Lady Galadriel’s mirror.”

Araphor nodded excitedly. “It is said that it shows the future.”

“Among other things, yes. Usually in creatively unpleasant ways. My lady looked into her mother’s mirror once, and what she saw she will not share with me, but whatever it was, it has wrapped the cold hand of fear around her heart. Even a mere glimpse of the future may break the strongest mind. That is what makes the mirror so very dangerous.”

“But this prophecy about Narsil – it did not come from the mirror?”

“No. It originated with Erestor, my chief counselor and steward of Imladris. He is a keeper of the history of Gondor and Arnor and when he first saw the broken shards of the blade in the hands of Valandil, he saw the sword reforged. He has written an account of what he saw, and you may ask him for it, if you choose, but I must warn you – it is not a clear picture of the future, merely a glimpse.”

“I am not sure if I truly wish to know the future,” Araphor said after a moment’s contemplation.

Elrond nodded. “It is a heavy burden to bear. Come now.”

He led the young prince away and brought him to the Hall of Fires, where he introduced him to his household and the assembled guests, and he called Glorfindel to his side, and Alfar, who had come from the Havens with Círdan.

“Here are two of the best archers you will find in Middle Earth,” he said to Araphor. “And Glorfindel is a master of horses as well. I recommend you to their care and teaching. Return to me when they are satisfied with your skill.”

Alfar and Glorfindel regarded the young man curiously. “Well,” said the elf from the Havens after a short while. “It would seem that Elrond had tasked us with a student, Glorfindel. I am not sure whether this is a blessing or a curse.”

“Never mind him,” Glorfindel said to Araphor, and they led him away to the training grounds; where Glorfindel gave him a horse, and sword, and Alfar a bow, and they set themselves to the task of training the young King of a troubled and besieged land to be a formidable warrior. Courage, Araphor had in abundance, and he was eager to learn, but time was short, and they all knew it.

Nobody doubted that it was but a matter of time before the forces of Angmar would once again attempt battle with the last remaining successor of Arnor and even with continued support from Lindon, its situation was precarious. And so Alfar and Glorfindel pushed their student hard, and hastened his education along as best they could, laying their other tasks aside.

Glorfindel was not yet fully recovered, and though he sought to hide it from the other two, his old wounds still hampered and pained him. Eventually, his pride led him right back to his sickbed, and a dismayed Alfar brought his injured friend to Elrond, who frowned at Glorfindel and scolded him for being careless.

“It will serve no one, least of all young Araphor, if you risk your health in training him,” he remarked. “And what an example to give, Glorfindel! I thought you wiser.”

“Erestor will have my head, will he not?” Alfar asked glumly.

“Someone’s, in any case,” Elrond says, his lips twitching in a barely surprised smile.

“That is not even remotely funny,” Glorfindel complained.

“Love comes in many forms,” Elrond told him loftily, “and in Erestor’s case, it comes with particularly sharp claws.”

It did indeed, but Glorfindel was saved from their wrath because he looked worrisomely pale and drawn, and Erestor took pity on him and tucked him into bed with a kiss and a whispered threat to tie him to the same if he dared to be foolish enough to rise before Elrond had proclaimed him healthy enough.

Afterwards, Erestor went to find Araphor. He handed the young man a rolled-up scroll tied with a faded ribbon.

“My lord?” Araphor asked, astonished.

“Elrond told me that you were interested in the future of the sword Narsil. Since it is tied to the history of your family, it is fair that you should read this.”

“Is this your prophecy?”

Erestor winced slightly at his choice of words. “If you want to call it thus.”

“Thank you.”

“As I said, it is your family’s history. But there is something else.”

Araphor looked at him curiously.

Erestor held up a hand and showed him a small object grasped between his fingers. It was the tip of an arrow, forged from a dull black metal and adorned with nasty barbs. As if struck by a sudden precognition, Araphor shuddered.

“What is that?”

“The tip of the arrow that Elrond found embedded deep in Glorfindel’s flesh after he and his company were ambushed on their way to Fornost. It pierced his chest and narrowly missed his heart, carrying with it a vile poison. He came perilously close to death, carrying another one of your family heirlooms. You owe him a debt of gratitude, and the least you could do is see to it that he does not injure himself while training you.”

Araphor hung his head. “I am truly sorry.”

“I should hope so. And you will be far more than sorry if it ever happens again.”

It was not even a threat, delivered in that stern, but matter-of-fact tone of voice, merely a statement of fact.

“You have my word,” Araphor assured the steward of Imladris hastily. He was, in that moment, utterly terrified of Erestor.

“Very well.” The arrow-tip disappeared into the folds of Erestor’s cloak. “If you see him, would you kindly let Alfar know that I wish to speak with him?”

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel was seated in the Hall of Fires with a lap full of elflings – Lindir and Elrohir, in this case, while Celeborn held Elladan.

“I cannot see my daughter in him,” the Lord of the Golden Wood mused, studying the child.

“You may, as he grows older,” Glorfindel consoled him. “And Elrond and Erestor have both seen a girl as well, maybe she will turn after her mother.”

Celeborn looked up and at him. “You seem to be a great favorite with the children, Glorfindel. And yet you have none of your own?”

“I prefer to borrow those of others,” Glorfindel said lightly, “that way, I can return them when I wish to sleep.”

Celeborn laughed at that. “Very clever.”

“He has his rare moments,” Erestor said, appearing behind Glorfindel, who turned to look up at him.

“You scared the poor young princeling half to death,” he accused. “He was stiff and formal as a suit of armor when he came to apologize and to thank me.”

“Good,” Erestor said firmly, placing a hand on Glorfindel’s shoulder and bending down to greet the children.

“I am not sure I approve of you threatening my friends,” Glorfindel complained.

“Luckily, I did not ask for your approval,” Erestor replied.

“I would not argue the point,” Celeborn advised. “There is nothing to be gained from it, trust me. Occasionally, the key to happiness lies in admitting your defeat and in saying ‘yes, my dear’.”

Glorfindel leant back against Erestor, who put an arm around him.

“Very well, I concede.”

“Of course, you do.”

From across the hall, Araphor watched them somewhat jealously, and turning to Círdan, who sat close-by, he said with regret: “I wish there was such a true love in this world for me.”

Círdan briefly looked at the pair and shook his head. “Not for you, my prince. You must ride to Fornost with me on the morrow, to be crowned in front of your people, and I have no doubt that by now, your advisers will have chosen a good and noble wife for you among your kin.”

Araphor sighed. “I know my duty. It is to my people, most of all.”

Círdan regarded him fondly, pleased with what he saw. “You have grown into a man faster than most, and by necessity. But I do believe that you will be a good man, and a good king to your people.”

Araphor looked at the scroll in his hands, the scroll that held the words of Erestor’s prophecy.

“I have little other choice, do I?”

“I have found,” Círdan said, “that fate is rarely set in stone.” An he looked out at Glorfindel, who had fallen defending his city against the forces of evil brought upon Gondolin by the treachery of Círdan’s own kinsman Maeglin, and who had risen again, by the will and the grace of the Valar.


End file.
